


Baskets are Bad Omens

by WritingIsMyCoffee



Series: The Ineffable Future ft. An Ineffable Pair [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam adopts himself as the baby's older brother, As in 'Is this baby human or something else???', Crowley rocks a baby bjorn like he does with everything he wears, God waited 6000 years for them to get together and decided She had enough of them taking things slow, Godfathers except their actually fathers, Gonna get angsty here and there, Hastur Redemption Arc, I lied there’s a lot of angst, M/M, Multi, Mystery Fic, Now with a vine comp!!, Plot Twists, Temporary Character Death, These morons don't know what they're doing, Time Skips, Unbeta’d bc that’s my brand, bet you weren't ever expecting to read that tag, but it's mostly fluffy, playing fast and loose with angel/demon powers, raising a kid together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 66,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyCoffee/pseuds/WritingIsMyCoffee
Summary: “Angel…” Crowley hesitates. “What’s it say?”Aziraphale swallows thickly. “She’s...she’s a gift.”It’s as he suspected, but still can’t believe. “From whom?”A firm believer in show, don’t tell apparently, Aziraphale flips the paper his way."t gravely tooketh thee two six thousand years to receiveth together. lest I not letting either of thee waste another second.  -G"Translation: "It seriously took you two six thousand years to get together. I'm not letting either of you waste another second. -G"Crowley can’t say what they’re both thinking. Aziraphale can.“It appears God has sent us a baby.”





	1. Baskets are Bad Omens

**Author's Note:**

> me, knowing I have another ongoing fic and will be offline for a week coming up shortly: don't do it  
> also me: fucking posts this anyway
> 
> So yeah updates are probably gonna be sporadic as hell but I couldn't get this idea out of my head. You don't need to read the other part of series to understand this at all, just that this takes place a year after the other fic. In the first part, they just confess their love for each other and Crowley falls off a bridge. He's cool though. Wings

There was a basket on Crowley’s doorstep.

Well, it wasn’t technically _Crowley’s_ doorstep. It was Aziraphale’s too, as it had been for the past year and ever so odd months. Nevertheless, there is a basket on _their_ doorstep.

The last encounter with a basket Crowley had (not counting bread baskets at the Ritz), it was holding the Antichrist. And that had gone all well and dandy floundering about for eleven years, doing heroic bits at random, and somehow not dying along with the rest of the world.

It’s safe to say Crowley has a thing with baskets, in that he does not trust them. And this white wicker basket here is _very_ untrustworthy in his books.

He lifts one lanky leg after the other over the mysterious parcel. It occurs to him the basket may have a chance of exploding on him, or liquefying into Holy Water, or some other terrible occurrence. After all, there’s no note on the outside to suggest where it came from. For all Crowley knows, the angels have finally decided what to do about Aziraphale and it’s a dirty basket.

While they can’t die, being enemies of both heaven and hell means discorporating is not an option. There’s no telling if they’d be able to escape their respective prisons if they beef it in the mortal world.

The basket, however, does not explode. Crowley enters the bookshop and promptly ignores its existence. It’s what he should have done with baskets in the past.

The store is empty, which is convenient for noon on a Thursday. More alone time with the...how should Aziraphale be referred to? Boyfriend? Fiance? Husband?

Those are all such human terms. Ineffable works just fine. Okay, maybe ineffable husband. That has a nice ring to it, anyway.

Aziraphale is busy sorting through books on a particularly crowded shelf when Crowley strolls in. Upon locking eyes, he breaks into the most heavenly smile. It makes sense, given he’s an angel and all, but it’s a look that never ceases to knock the wind from Crowley’s lungs.

“How’s the weather out there, dear?”

“You’ve got windows, can’t ye tell? It’s muggy as hell. Er, as Earth can be. Not a lot of foot traffic, eh?”

Aziraphale sighed, stepping away from his books. Somehow the shelf looks even messier than before. “ _Thankfully_. I wasn’t in the mood to sway anyone away today.”

A devious glint catches in his eyes. Crowley’s heart flutters. The angel isn’t even trying and he’s a sappy. It’s a wonder how they lasted 6000 years dancing around each other.

“What do you say I close early today and we go dine at the Ritz?”

Hardly an evil plan, but with so much of the left before typical closing time it’s as devilish as Aziraphale can get. “As long as we can listen to _bebop_ on the way over.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “If we must. Just let me flip the sign out front real quick. Can’t have any last minute stragglers.”

Crowley leaps in front of him, not-so-casually trying to block his path. “Y’know why don’t we go out the other door today?”

Aziraphale eyes him strangely. “You mean...the fire escape?”

“Yes. The fire escape. Read an article about them recently. Apparently humans say it’s safer to use those than your own front door.”

Aziraphale pushes him aside. “Obviously there’s something on the step you don’t want me to see.”

“No, you’ve got it backwards. There’s someone on the fire escape I _want_ you to see.”

Despite his masterful persuasion tactics, Aziraphale doesn’t fall for it. The angel opens the door and finds the basket.

Which is surprising, given Crowley had tried to miracle it away as he was turning the handle.

“You left a basket on the front step in broad daylight?!” Aziraphale questions him.

“Didn’t see it,” Crowley mumbles, trying desperately to blend into the wall.

“There’s a baby in it!”

Now that’s far more concerning. He stands up straight, trying to get a look.

Sure enough, there’s a wrinkly, humanoid baby squirming underneath the lid. Their swaddled in a grey-colored baby cloth and kicking furiously.

“I didn’t know that was in there!”

Aziraphale picks up the basket and quickly brings it inside. “You didn’t think to check? Anyone could have taken it!”

“Yeah, like whoever’s parents accidentally left it there!” Crowley argues. “I was doing them a favor. Now they’ll never find their wee babe.”

With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale clears the display table in the center of the room. The books that had been on it previously find homes on any spare surface they can. Aziraphale sets the basket down, peering back inside at the tiny infant.

Crowley stands awkwardly at his side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t like this. Whatever _this_ is.

Aziraphale hums nervously. “Well, it appears to be okay.” He sneaks a peek beneath the cloth. “Correction: she appears to be okay.”

“So...we can put her back out there then?”

Aziraphale glares at him. Okay, time to stop beating that dead horse. The angel scoops up the baby and lifts her carefully from the basket. He stares at her for a moment, features softening. He stares at her for a long time, really. Crowley starts to sweat.

“Here, you take her.”

He’s passed the baby before he can get a word of protest out. Crowley cups a hand around the baby’s head and round behind, hoisting them against his shoulder. “Oh no. No, this is a very bad idea. Handing a demon a baby?”

“You’ve been trusted with one before,” Aziraphale argues. He’s sifting through the basket, digging in the limited amount of nooks and crannies.

“And we all saw how that turned out!”

The baby gives a low murmur, which quickly turns into a full-on wail. Crowley looks to Aziraphale fretfully, the baby’s cries only growing louder and louder.

“What do I do?!”

Aziraphale seems more startled by him asking for help than the baby crying. There’s a piece of paper in his hand, evidently something they missed inside. “Just...rock her, or something! You’ve made her upset with all your yelling.”

“Wh-? You’re yelling too!”

The baby is crying even louder now. Crowley had no idea humans could be so loud. Maybe that was an added touch made by the Devil before God shipped Adam and Eve out into Eden. He adjusts his hold on the baby, then together sways them from side to side.

Any mother or knowledgeable human would watch Crowley’s mechanical movements and think he was doing a half-assed job. Crowley would look at himself and see a demon doing his best.

His best has to be enough, and judging by how the baby starts to calm down maybe it is. He lifts her a little ways away from his face, suddenly having the urge to physically look at her to make sure she’s alright. He knows this without staring directly into her eyes, but the instinct remains.

Two teary blue eyes, as bright as they sky above, stare back at him.

Crowley’s breath catches in his throat.

“She’s got your eyes.”

From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale tears himself away from the piece of paper and stares at the both of them.

“And she’s got your hair…”

They look at each other now.

“Angel…” Crowley hesitates. “What’s it say?”

Aziraphale swallows thickly. “She’s...she’s a gift.”

It’s as he suspected, but still can’t believe. “From _whom?_ ”

A firm believer in show, don’t tell apparently, Aziraphale flips the paper his way.

_t gravely tooketh thee two six thousand years to receiveth together. lest I not letting either of thee waste another second.  -G_

Translation: _It seriously took you two six thousand years to get together. I'm not letting either of you waste another second. -G_

Crowley can’t say what they’re both thinking. Aziraphale can.

“It appears God has sent us a baby.”


	2. Parental Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've gone back to watching David's seasons of doctor who bc good omens gave me such nostalgia for it and I forgot how wacky that show can be. God i love it

“We have to send her back.”

Aziraphale puts a firm finger up to his lips, shushing him. He’s just put the baby to sleep in a makeshift cot, a task that had taken a good half hour to do. His own prideful invention, he’s taken the chair from his study, as well as the loveseat, and propped them next to each other. This has created a sort of baby change, one that would never be deemed safe for use if it were sold in a store. God help them. Seriously.

“We can’t just send her back,” he whispers crossly. “I don’t think God will let us.”

“Then we’ll just...put her up for adoption or something. Humans love babies. Humans love human babies. She’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale takes a skittish glance at the baby. “Crowley, how are we even sure she _is_ human?”

Crowley racks his brain for an easy tell, but to his utter horror realizes he can’t come up with a single one. Adam was just the same way when he delivered him to the Chattering Nuns: small, wrinkly, and very babyish. The kid barely stretched his demonic muscles before Doomsday, and besides telling Satan to fuck off didn’t do much on the actualy day either.

“Gotta be...W-Well, she’s gotta be because...what would she be if she wasn’t?”

He’s suddenly lightheaded. The bookstore is spinning, and as far as Crowley knows Soho isn’t the place to get hit by tornadoes. He takes a step back, reaching for a chair that isn’t there, and falls flat on his ass.

The resulting _thump_ rumbles throughout the room. The pair holds their breath as the baby starts to squirm, but soon enough she falls back asleep.

Aziraphale shares a collective sigh with his husband. “Are you okay?”

He’s still whispering. How can he possibly be whispering at a time like this? Crowley is bursting with panicked energy. He’d scream until his head popped off or his ears started bleeding, whichever would come last. He’d dig up the M25 with his bare hands and toss all the asphalt into the North Sea. He’d do so many things, and at the end of it all no amount of destruction would begin to ebb away at his mounting worries.

After 6000 of needless distractions and thick-headedness, this baby could ruin the glorious future ahead of them. One year of finally getting things right isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough, when compared to all the time that was wasted.

Aziraphale comes first. His baby or not, he’s not going to let her existence put his angel in any sort of danger.

He hasn’t given Aziraphale a response, which in itself is an answer. His angel-his wonderful, magnificent angel-kneels down in front of him. “She’s _ours_ , Crowley. Human or not. I know you can feel it. That lo-”

“If you say that word, I’m leaving.”

Aziraphale shuts his mouth, heartbreak in his eyes. Crowley runs a shaky hand over his face, breath shuddering.

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I...Oh _angel_ , what are we gonna _do?_ I’m a demon, and she’s-she’s-! We don’t know what _she is!_ The next _Antichrist?_ The next part of God’s Ineffable _Plan?!_ ”

Aziraphale shushes him again, this time with a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down now, dear. Breathe for me.”

“It’s only been a year. One year and suddenly we’re _fathers?_ You mention it once on a whim and now we’ve...she’s over there...she’s _real_ …How do we get answers?”

“We don’t.”

“There has to be a way to reach Her. Just one way. That’s all we need.”

Aziraphale shakes his head with a small, sympathetic smile. “I tried that once. Didn’t get anywhere, except discorporated. I-It’s all happening a little sooner than we anticipated-”

“A little?!” Crowley chuckles lowly. “Oh angel, that’s like saying we’re only slightly screwed. No, we are _royally_ screwed. We don’t have the supplies, or any clue as to what we’re doing! And I’m...you know...”

Aziraphale shoots him a stern look, though it is not unkind. “You being a demon doesn’t affect anything.”

“Except it affects everything, because I’m a _demon!_ ”

“You were Warlock’s nanny, and he turned out just fine.”

“No, he turned out to be a little shit, that’s what happened.”

“That’s because he’s American. Listen, as much as you hate hearing it-”

“Please don’t-”

Aziraphale moves his hand to cup Crowley’s cheek. Evidently, he does not care what his husband does or does not want to hear. “You are a _kind_ demon. A kind _being_ , more importantly. What you are doesn’t matter as much as _who_ you are. It’s all about the influences, remember?”

With the warm hand on his cheek and the knot rising in his throat, Crowley doesn’t know what to say to him. So he changes the subject. “Aren’t you _scared?_ Mr. ‘You go to fast for me?’ Surely you are. Tell me you are.”

Aziraphale nods once, heavily. “I am.”

“Shit. Take it back. We can’t both be scared. Shit shit shit-”

“We can, and we are. Here.” Aziraphale stands up, doing a poor job of masking his wobbly knees. Regardless, he expends a hand out for Crowley and pulls the demon to his feet. Hand in hand, he walks his husband over to the sleeping baby. Their sleeping baby.

He takes Crowley’s hand and inches it towards the girl’s head.

Crowley tries to pull back. “Oh no, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Crowley is doing a piss poor job of coming up with decent excuses today. He says nothing, and Aziraphale forces him forward again.

His fingers brush up again peach fuzz curls. The hair is softer than anything he’s ever felt. Softer than Egyptian cotton, than sheep’s wool, than butterfly’s wings. Any soft thing Crowley can think of doesn’t compare.

Her scalp is smooth and veiny, not having enough hair to cover it completely. The shift in emotion he has upon caressing the top of her little head is astounding. Here he is, touching a real, tangible being, who lives and breathes just like him. A little baby with part of his own being mixed with hers.

His eyes gloss over. He pulls his hand away and Aziraphale lets him. He looks to his angel-his strong, compassionate angel, his rock, his motivation for all he does-and he is just as moved.

“I guess if you’re scared, and I’m scared...it all cancels out then.”

Aziraphale smiles, crows feet growing in the corners of his eyes. “She needs a name.”

“I am far too emotional to come up with a name right now.”

“Well, it can wait. What we really need is supplies.”

“Oh...Yeah. Shit. W-What do we-What do we need?”

Aziraphale’s expression turns blank. “Uh, well...nappies, formula, a crib most importantly-”

“Oh fuck, where are we gonna put a crib?”

“In the bedroom, I suppose? I’ll make room. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of it. Oh...” The angel loses himself to his own thoughts. “This place will need baby proofed. Oh God, there’s so many hazards. S-So many sharp edges and high steps and and-”

Crowley finds Aziraphale’s hand and gives it a squeeze. He saves his husband from his downward spiral, the angel’s eyes coming back into focus. “Alright, one thing at a time. I can’t have you losing it when I’m already such a mess.”

“Right. You’re right.” Aziraphale returns his gaze to their baby, a determined crease slotting between his brows. “She’ll wake up before the day’s over. Probably be hungry by then. We’ll have to use our time wisely.”

There’s a beat of silence as he forms a plan.

“You head to the store. I’ll watch her and fix up the flat. Try to be back before nightfall, because I do _not_ want to be here by myself when she wakes up.”

“Why do _I_ have to do the shopping?” Crowley demands. He can picture the peering eyes watching him at the store. A man clad in leather, dressed like he belongs in a screamo band, would seem like a suspicious character to be roaming the baby aisle.

“You’ve got the Bentley, and I’d rather not miracle a dozen goods back here if I can help it.”

Right, their Limitations Rule. Those up above and those below had been tracking their many miracles and temptations since the start of humanity, mostly through word of mouth and careful observation. Now, faction-less, they have to be careful not to draw much attention to themselves, lest their happily ever after be ended by all the angels and demons they’ve pissed off.

“Fine. Yeah. I’ll be quick.” Crowley makes his way swiftly to the front door.

“You always are,” Aziraphale remarks wearily. “Crowley?”

The demon looks back, hand already on the doorknob.

Much more certain, Aziraphale adds, “It’s going to be just fine. We can handle this.”

Crowley opens his mouth, shuts it, and the door behind him.


	3. Sleepless in Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night with the new baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg thank you all so much for 1000+ hits! Your kindness so far has been incredible <3

Crowley had bought everything close to the entire store for the baby.

He had felt the need to purchase all they  _ may _ need as well as they  _ do _ need, and knowing how hard he tried Aziraphale has a hard time telling him they’ll never end up using the obsessive amount of baby food before their daughter starts eating solids.

Their daughter. How miraculous and petrifying that reality is.

Aziraphale has lived among humans since their creation, dined with them, danced with them, and overtime grew quite fond of them. That fondness, along with a fondness for a certain demon, was the very reason he worked so tirelessly to foil Armageddon.

But never has he _ raised _ one. He’s played with the idea, even mentioned it to Crowley once he finally confessed his feelings for him, but to commit to something so grand seemed impossible for him to do in practice.

Guess he’ll be getting plenty of practice now.

The milk on the stovetop comes to a low simmer. Aziraphale pours a sizable amount into a newly-washed baby bottle and turns off the heat. He measures out the recommended dosage of formula on the powder’s box and stirs it well.

He samples it, just in case some unknown demonic (or angelic) intervention has taken place. All he takes is bland protein. No poison. They can never be too careful nowadays.

Various infant paraphernalia lines the path to the upstairs bedroom. Parenting books have been stacked along the stairs, and binkies and burp cloths have been strewn about. Aziraphale trips on the strap of a diaper bag, but catches himself before he, and the formula, go spilling to the floor.

The light in the bedroom has been dimmed, save for a small burst of angelic light above Crowley’s head. His husband is reading from a set of instructions religiously, a wide snarl on his face from the many frustrating hours of work he’s put into setting up the crib. Aziraphale bends down as he passes to press a kiss to his temple.

“You’ll get it, dear.”

Crowley hisses, his annoyance building. “I am going to hunt down whoever manufactured this and  _ skin them _ .”

Aziraphale comes to a slow stop before the baby. They’ve set up a barricade of pillows on the bed to contain her, deeming the mattress safer than two conjoined chairs. Carefully, he lifts her up and cradles her in the nook of his arm.

She stirs gently from her nap, eyes opening wearily, taking in her father’s face with odd amusement.

A smile naturally spreads across Aziraphale’s face. “Hello there. You hungry?”

He tilts the nipple of the bottle her way, and she is suddenly wide awake. She nurses savagely on the end, tiny hands raising up to smack Aziraphale’s chest.

Warmth blossoms in the angel’s chest. He turns to Crowley, grinning cheerfully. “Look dear. Look at this!”

Crowley crumples up the instructions into a tight, furious ball. He tosses it into the air, where it spontaneously combusts into flames. Crib one, demon zero. He rises on rigid limbs and stomps over to the pair.

“Yes, look at that. Got your appetite, but not the refined pallet.”

“You know, human children actually have more taste buds than adults,” Aziraphale informs him proudly. “Apparently, the reason why they tend to be picky at a young age is because some tastes are too powerful for them.”

“Or they’re just picky bastards,” Crowley remarks.

“Given up on the crib, then?”

The demon growls. He scrunches his eyes closed, the bags beneath them darker than Aziraphale has ever seen them. “Just let me miracle it. Just one more miracle. One more miracle can’t possibly hurt.”

Aziraphale bites his lower lip. “Or it could…” He measures Crowley’s stress against the unknown chances of an attack by the sides against them. He sides with the former. “Alright, if you really want t-”

Crowley snaps his fingers before he gets a chance to finish. Just like that, a perfectly assembled crib stands at the ready. There’s an attached mobile, with fiery skulls and dead rats made of plywood hanging from the ends. Aziraphale doesn’t remember those being pictured on the box. 

“I really do.”

Aziraphale eyes him slyly and stamps his foot. The skulls are replaced with cartoony snakes and the rats with smiling plants. “That’s more child friendly.”

Crowley snarls, but doesn’t debate further. “Now no more miracles?”

“None for today, and if we can help it the rest of the week…” Aziraphale sighs pensively. “I feel as though we’re going to have to them wisely from here on out.”

“We’ve already been doing that.”

“ _ Wiser _ , then.” He looks down at their daughter. She’s just about finished her bottle, her eyelids growing heavy. “Even out of their grip I still feel as if they’re controlling me…”

A twinge of empathy catches Crowley’s expression. He wraps his arms loosely around Aziraphale, leaving the baby plenty of space to breathe. “Right now, there’s no Gabriel, no Michael, no Beelzebub or Hastur. Just us. It’s always been us.”

Aziraphale feels a pang of lament, reflecting on all those times he tried so hard to keep it from being anything  _ but _ them. How foolish of him to push away the one person that made existence worth while.

“Us and the little one...Crowley, if they find out about her-”

“We’ll kill them. Easy. No need to worry.”

Aziraphale frowns. “ _ Not _ easy. But no matter how it comes down to it-”

Crowley stills. “Angel-”

“Her needs come first.” Aziraphale watches her fall back asleep, tiny mouth hanging open and drooling. “No matter what she is, she’s ours. If she’s mortal, she’ll need us to fight her divine battles. And if she’s not...we’re still her dads.”

A darkness passes over Crowley’s face. Not a sinister or malicious one, but a knowing one. He doesn’t speak, only lets his head fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale leans his head against his, closing his eyes and sighing softly. “Let’s put her to bed.”

Crowley breathes deeply through his nose. “Abigail.”

“Hmm?”

“Abigail. Rhymes with nightingale. Seems appropriate given...y’know…”

As an angel, Aziraphale can sense the love that surrounds most places. Here, in their bedroom, he feels more love he ever has before. “Abigail...” He beams proudly. “Our little Abigail.”

Eventually, Crowley entangles himself and Abigail is laid down to rest. Even unconscious, she stretches her chubby limbs pleasantly, as if admiring her new bed.

The crib is pushed onto Aziraphale’s side of the bed. It’s an arrangement that is agreed upon without an argument, seeing how tired Crowley is and how the angel knows he won’t be able to catch a wink.

Under the covers, Crowley hugs Aziraphale’s middle tightly, burrowing his face into his husband’s chest.

Aziraphale runs a hand through his ginger hair. “Sleep well, love.”

“Believ’ me, I w’ll,” Crowley slurs, then he’s out like a light.

It’s the end of their first day of parenthood. Aziraphale can only imagine what the many days to follow will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna try to make the chapters longer going forward bc we’re diving into plot stuff and time skips, so they may take a bit longer to post


	4. Hello and Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s one skill any parent knows it’s how to be flexible.

The first two months go as follows:

Sleep has been abolished. There is no rest except for the sparse moments there are to breathe. Every hour of the day is used to its fullest. Watch baby, feed baby, burp the baby, rock baby, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Crowley has no damn clue how humans manage it with their mortal limitations. He has all the forces of hell at his fingertips and yet he can’t figure out how to change a nappie properly. Abigail just has too many flailing limbs and too short a patience to get the job done smoothly.

The trials of parenthood have been written to death countless times before. It’s best to skip past their more trivial parts of trial and error and cut to the important bits.

Abigail has a strong disliking of peas.

If you were to wander up to any stranger idly strolling down the street and asked them what they thought of peas, they would probably have similar feelings, then ask you to please stop asking socially awkward questions as they just try to go about their day.

Aziraphale tries, for the fourth time this morning, to shovel a spoonful into her mouth. He’s tried sweet-talking, bargaining, and even jamming it between her gummy fortress, and is now relying on praying.

“Oh please God. Just a little more intervention into our lives would be appreciated here.”

He inches the spoon closer. Abigail screams and smacks it away. Vegetable blood spatter stains the hardwood beneath them, the spoon clattering away into a dusty corner of the kitchenette.

Aziraphale sulks, defeated. Crowley steps over the mess and wipes Abigail’s face off with the end of his scarf. It’s already been stained by past desperate uses, and by this point he no longer cares how sullied it gets.

“Better luck next time, angel.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh...it’s her first food. Probably just a texture thing. Or those taste buds.” He tries to put an upbeat spin on his words, but his disappointment is too easily palpable. It’s hard for adult-born immortals like themselves to realize how stubborn newborns are to change. If this were not the case, Crowley knows Aziraphale would be sweeping Abigail off all across Europe to try the most remarkable of foods the world has to offer.

There’s a random piece of fluff in Abigail’s hair, which Crowley picks out without worry. Kids seem to be magnets to all kinds of filth. And there’s a lot of ginger hair atop her head to let it accumulate. She’s like a babbling dust mop.

And babble she does. “Abah bah ah!”

“Look at that. You’ve gone and broke your father.” Crowley shakes his head with a _tisk_. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Ahhh maba!”

Aziraphale perks up. “That almost sounded like mama!”

“Or mamba,” Crowley suggests. “Are you trying to tell us something, infant? Finally revealing all your origin secrets?”

Abigail opens her mouth and a clumpy trail of spit-up falls onto her high chair.

“Oh, that’s gonna require more than a scarf,” Aziraphale snickers. Crowley has no idea how he finds any of this amusing. Maybe the natural, malodorous scent of their child doesn’t hit the angel the same way it hits him.

Or he’s not as tolerant of strong odors given his experiences down under. Oh, and hell too.

Crowley hoists Abigail up by the armpits and balances her on his hip. “Miracle it?”

Aziraphale gives him A Look. “We’ve only got one left for the week.

“It’ll be well spent. Look at that gunk. All sludgy and chunky and...eck!”

The angel rolls his eyes. “Nothing some elbow grease won’t get out. You clean her up and I’ll get the kitchen.”

“Well, as long as you’re offering.” Free of responsibility, Crowley takes Abigail and saunters out of the room.

Or at least he saunters partly out. As he reaches the doorway, Abigail lets out an unearthly cry. Her face turns as red as a lobster, her tantrum turning her into a characterture of The Devil. Little silver tears fill in the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, please don’t wail your little head off,” Crowley pleads under his breath. “What is it? Actually want to give those peas a try now?”

Abigail swivels her head around, locking onto Aziraphale. She holds her chubby arms out at her father’s backside, him too occupied with cleaning to notice her wanting.

“Nah, daddy’s busy right now. Let’s leave him be.”

Evidently, Abigail does not want to leave Aziraphale be. All it takes is for Crolwey to take one step forward for her to realize she’s being taken away, and her reaction to this is to sprout tiny wings and fly out of his grasp.

This doesn’t shock Crowley in the slightest. Actually, he’s far too confused to react at all. That is, until Abigail’s lack of flying experience catches up to her and she starts to plummet.

“Az-AZIRAPHALE!”

“What-?! OH MY LORD?!”

Aziraphale has just enough time to sweep Abigail into his arms before she’s too low to save. Out of danger and right where she wants to be, she giggles happily as if nothing was the matter. Aziraphale, stunned so badly he’s paralyzed, pays no mind to her baby hands slapping his face.

“What...the _fuck_ ...did she just _do?_ ”

Crowley stumbles forward, like a zombie fresh out of their grave. His legs feel detached, his arms ripped from their sockets. His brain is already struggling to sort out all the details of _what the hell just happened_ , but all he can seem to focus on are the velvety touch of Abigail’s wings.

They’re soft and fluffy, like a baby birth. The feathers are speckled black at the ends and white at their roots, but for the most part they are a defined-

“Gray.”

Aziraphale follows his gaze, pupils not even the size of an atom at this point. “Not an angel.”

Crowley shakes his head like it had been impaled on a spear. “Not a demon.”

Together, they reach a definite conclusion. “Not human.”

 

Clearly, the wings are going to be a problem.

A more prevalent problem is Abigail’s urge to fly at any given moment. With no experience, stamna, or balance, she’s more of a led balloon than The Garden of Eden turned out to be. Not entirely sure how to remedy the problem, Aziraphale miracles the walls and floors of the bookshop to turn into plush mattresses, though this can only be seen from the inside of the building. Though they never actually allow her to fly; one of them has Abigail in a tight hug as any given moment.

A problem that has soon to become prevalent is not blowing their divine cover and attracting attention from any agents of heaven and hell there may be lurking about. Sure, the bookshop has been known as Aziraphale’s place of residents far before the apocalypse was in motion, but neither doubts that either side finding out about Abigail’s existence would mean certain danger for their daughter.

So what are two immortal dads to do?

“When is she going to disguise her wings?” Crowley moans, wrestling to keep their two-month-old in his arms. Her wings have been fluttering across his nose for the past half-minute and it’s a miracle in its own right he hasn’t needed to sneeze yet.

“I don’t think she knows how,” Aziraphale confesses weakly. It has been their longest day of parenthood yet, and it’s not even tea time. He’s thrown himself on the floor, hands knit firmly across his stomach, eyes staring at a mattress tag hanging from where a light fixture use to be.

“Well, this whole situation has gone all tits-up, ain’t it?”

“Language, Crowley!”

“She can’t talk! Not like she can go around repeating anything.”

Abigail grins widely. “Ti! Ti-i-ti!”

Aziraphale sits up. “She almost had it!”

Crowley gnashes his teeth together and growls. “Little bugger is ruining everything! What are we going to do?”

“She’s not a little bugger,” Aziraphale corrects him quietly, “and I...I don’t know. Keep her indoors for now, and…”

“And what? She’s still a baby. She’ll need check-ups and shots and _sunlight_ eventually!”

Aziraphale grows pale, allowing the sweat along his forehead to glisten properly. “Well we can’t just let her outside! There are too many people out and about on a daily basis! The humans may be deft to our true identities, but who knows who’s blending in with them.”

Crowley pictures Hastur’s wart-covered face inches away from his husbands. His insides twist up and tear themselves apart.

“Maybe Soho is no place to raise a baby.”

Crowley jolts, barely missing Aziraphale’s face fall in sorrowful acceptance. “But...you love the bookshop. Y-You’ve lived here for over a hundred years.”

Aziraphale smiles sadly. “And I’ve loved every minute of it...but it’s not a realistic place to settle down, given our circumstances. It’ll be much safer for Abigail if we were to move somewhere out in the country.”

 _But it’d be so disappointing for you_ , Crowley thinks, but doesn’t dare say out loud. He knows it would only worsen the blow on his dear angel. He only nods, glaring at Abigail. The baby pays him no mind, too busy nibbling on her fingers. “Where would we go?”

Aziraphale brightens up a little bit at that. “There’s always the cottage. It’s on the outskirts of Tadfield; less chance risking a run-in with anyone dangerous.”

When you’re immortal and you buy a cottage with your significant other in the town you prevented The Devil from rising up and destroying the world in, you tend to forget you bought it in the first place and thus are surprised every tax season when the bill for the mortgage comes in. It had been more of a memento from Doomsday for Crowley and a hopeful vacation home for Aziraphale.

It has now been over a year since they bought it, and they have never once set foot in it.

“‘S not a bad idea,” Crowley admits, hating how easy an out it would be, at the cost of Aziraphale’s beloved shop.

But Aziraphale seems to have forgotten about that emotional toll, and has instead moved on. “Tadfield has a school district set up too, and a lovely community. Oh...I could picture Abigail having a happy life out there. It may just be perfect.”

“Hmmm, nothing’s ever perfect,” Crowley warns, but Aziraphale doesn’t hear him.

“And last I heard, that kind descendant of Agnes Nutters was still living there...perhaps she’s found some additional prophecies!”

“And that’s grand _because?_ ”

Aziraphale beams hopefully at him, his light piercing through the room. “They may have something to do about Abigail.”

 

The pros outweigh the cons, as devastating as Crowley believes it to be. They pack up the shop, kiss Soho goodbye, and leave for Tadfield.

Well, it’s not as easy as bing, boom, done. Packing things the human way takes an _absurd_ amount of time to get done. Books aren’t as easy to move as one may think, and it takes hundreds of trips in the Bentley to move them across the country. Factor in typical M25 traffic and you have a new form of demonic torture.

After what seems like an eternity, the last bit of belongings is ready to cast off: Aziraphale’s suitcase full of prophecy books, a healthy houseplant, and Abigail.

Aziraphale puts a great deal of care into strapping her in her car seat. His hands are meticulous, every buckle adjusted properly to her height and weight. He even goes as far as to repolish the mirror hanging off the backseat. Abigail’s face has never looked clearer, which isn’t saying much since most of the time it’s covered in baby grime.

“Right, well I think she’s ready for a trip to Alpha Centauri,” Crowley muses.

Aziraphale checks all the huckles one last time and nods. “You may be right.”

He’s about to pull out and shut the door on her, but before doing so he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her temple.

A knot forms in Crowley’s chest. He tries to ignore it, distracting himself by patting Aziraphale’s back.

“So...this is it.”

“This is it,” the angel parrots, voice wavering.

A part of his heart will always be here, and the rest, as it always has, will be with Crowley. Though Crowley knows he has to share that chunk with the baby now.

“I-If you don’t mind...I’d like to take one last walk around?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley gives him his kindest smile. “Take all the time you want.”

Aziraphale smiles back, incredibly grateful. “Watch Abby for me?”

Crowley dodges the nickname and smirks. “She’s not going anywhere.”

He watches Aziraphale walk slowly back to the bookshop, savoring every step as he knows it’ll be the last. After a few minutes, Crowley grows tired of the city’s damp air and climbs into the driver’s seat.

It’s when the door lock clicks that he realizes he and Abigail are not alone.

Upkept hair, crisp business suit, cold smile, and violet eyes, Gabriel demands the attention of every light particle in the vehicle.

“Crowley. I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting face to face. Well, alone of course.”

A moment. That’s all Crowley has to assess the situation, find his exit routes, and determine the best way to protect the baby.

The doors are unlocked, meaning he can make a quick escape. Abigail can not. As far as he knows the horn still works, so he could cause a ruckus if needed. Aziraphale should be able to hear it from inside the building.

Then there are other things he factors in: Gabriel believes this to be their first solo meeting. Gabriel hasn’t figured out about their switcheroo, as far as he knows. He’s going to act on the assumption he doesn’t.

All these things in mind, Crowley drapes an arm along the back of his seat and makes himself comfortable. “Ah, Archangel Gabriel. Or as I like to call you, Gabe the Asshole. What brings you down here for such a kind visit?”

Gabriel’s expression turns as hard as stone. “You’re smart for a demon, so I don’t see why we need to dance around the issue.”

A harsh (and ironic) choice of words. Hoping his eye movement can’t be seen beneath his glasses, Crowley spares a glance at Abigail’s car seat mirror. She’s chewing at her fingers again. They must be mighty tasty.

He stares back at Gabriel. “What, exactly, do you want?”

“Well, eventually, I’m going to want revenge,” Gabriel replies honestly. There’s a curl to the corners of his lips, like coils with a spike on the end. How strange. “You’ve made a mockery of heaven and hell. You both have. And both sides still want their war.”

“Yes’mmmm, the first part I get...second part two I guess…’cept I don’t see why you want to fight so badly.”

Gabriel’s gaze darkens. “All part of the _Ineffable_ Plan. That’s what you two called it, right?”

“Thought you lot didn’t know what the Ineffable Plan was. Just sticking to the status quo for the sake of, I don’t know...brand consistency?”

“Well, here’s how both sides see it.”

He leans in close, intruding into Crowley’s personal bubble.

“If the war isn’t supposed to happen, then God will prevent it. And if She doesn’t...then that’s that.”

As warm as Gabriel’s breath is, a chill still runs up Crowley’s spine. “What are you here for _now?_ ”

Gabriel leans back, though Crowley doesn’t feel any less violated. “I’m just curious, is all. And before your little...possy...hits the road, I just wanted to ask...what do you think that G at the end of the note really stood for?”

That knot in Crowley’s chest tightens, frays, and snaps all at once. And before the words can even take their full effect, Gabriel vanishes with a sudden _pop._

Not a minute later, Aziraphale steps out of the bookshop, running a hand along the front door as he shuts it one last time. His mind is elsewhere, as it should be and will hopefully stay.

There’s no need in getting him all mixed up in this, Crowley decides. Not until he has a better idea of what’s going on, or if his terrifying suspicions are true.

He glances back at Abigail again. She catches his sight in his reflection, waving her arms around excitedly with a toothless grin.

Crowley grips the steering wheel tightly.

He’s warmed up to her, despite everything, and certainly not as much as Aziraphale has but he does like her. He’d go as far as to say he’s fond of her, even as high maintenance as she is. In time, he could honestly see himself loving her.

Oh God, please let Gabriel just be a lying bastard.

Aziraphale slides into the passenger's seat, a bittersweet smile etched onto his face. “Well, this is really it, huh?”

Crowley hums lowly, his thoughts anywhere but here. Aziraphale leans over to better catch his expression, a sliver of sorry finding its way into his.

“Are you alright?”

Crowley forces a smile. “Just...pensive. Lots to think about. Lots we’re leaving behind.”

Aziraphale smiles back in full force. “Yes, but there’s a lot we have yet to gain going forward.” He turns in his chair, beaming at Abigail.  “It’s going to be very wonderful, Abby. Lots of space to fly around. A whole world for you to explore, and we’ll be with you all the way.”

 _She can’t understand a word you’re saying_ , Crowley wants to remind him, but then realizes he could be wrong. He wills the Bentley to life and shifts into drive.

Aziraphale slides his buckle on. “Make sure to drive slowly, dear.”

“Mmm, I know.”

“Sixty miles per hour is not slow.”

“Yes, yes.”

He pulls out into the road, merging with traffic, and wonders desperately if it’s not too late to turn back.


	5. Familiar but Not Too Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about secrets is they never benefit anyone. Or at least, they’ve never benefited Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank y’all again for the amazing support <3 I’m really glad everyone seems to be enjoying the fic so far

The cottage looks like a home.

Bookcases aligned on every wall, filled to the brim with volumes young and old. A designated living space with Crowley’s leather couch and Aziraphale’s cozier furnishings. A real kitchen with working appliances and teal-painted cupboards. Three bedrooms, for the couple, Abigail, and whomever may need it. Right now, it’s home to a dozen potted plants.

The lighting is soft, the views out into the countryside are breathtaking, and there’s not a hint of city traffic to be heard.

It looks like a home.

It certainly doesn’t feel like it.

Crowley sits tensely poised on a box in the entryway. He’s been sitting on it for quite some time now. The cardboard has bent beneath his weight, but the label on the outside assures him the clothes inside will suffer no damage. Good, because he doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon.

He’s thinking. He’s been thinking for most of the day now, ever since his life took a turn for the worst. Not even that, the worst it could ever possibly be.

He drove all the way to Tadfield with white knuckles on the steering wheel and his teeth firmly grit. His jaw still aches as a result. All he’s decided upon is protecting Aziraphale at all costs and keeping Gabriel’s sinister involvement to himself.

Only now he’s not so sure he should even do that.

Aziraphale learned his lesson in sharing when he was discoporated before spilling his intel on Adam. It’s one they both took to heart, seeing how it almost cost them the world. Now the world is at stake once again, just in a more metaphorical sense.

He should tell Aziraphale. He has to.

But how does he even start that conversation?

Dear, our daughter may be a spy sent from heaven. (She’s three months old.) Angel, I believe Abigail is going to kill us. (She has baby hands and no muscle mass.) Aziraphale, we have to kill our own child. (There would be no rebuttal to that, only heartbreak and betrayal.)

And Crowley thought confessing his feelings would be impossible.

A calming wave crawling towards the shore, Aziraphale wanders out of Abigail’s bedroom, having just put her to sleep. “She doesn’t seem bothered by the change of scenery,” he informs Crowley happily. “Wings didn’t pop back out either. Must not have felt like flying today.”

Crowley looks at him, basking in the light of his expression before he snuffs it out. “Angel...we have to talk.”

Aziraphale doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “I knew something was bothering you. Couch?”

They sit on the couch. Crowley’s shoulders square up, while Aziraphale’s remain loose, a deviation from the norm. The angel waits patiently for Crowley to speak, placing a hand on the demon’s knee.

Crowley swallows thickly, and lets the words come as they will. “Gabriel showed up while you were in the shop,”

There goes that light, and all the peace Aziraphale found after the switcheroo. “What did he want?”

He straightens his shoulders, fisting Crowley’s pant leg. Crowley places his hand atop his.

“Went on about the war, the Ineffable Plan, typical villainy stuff. He monologued for a bit and made things real awkward in the car...then he mentioned the note.”

Aziraphale stiffens. “But there’s no...No. No, oh no- _Crowley_ -”

There are tears in his words that have yet to fall. Crowley sweeps his husband into a firm embrace, not sure of any way to comfort him from this impossible blow.

“He could be full of shit,” Aziraphale tries to convince himself. “H-He’s a real...maybe he...she’s just a _baby_. Oh, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t know how,” Crowley whispers, unable to speak any louder without his voice cracking to hell. “What do you want to do, love?”

Aziraphale shakes his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “Don’t ask me now.”

He doesn’t ask again, even as the day slips into the next and they’re still cradling each other on the couch. Crowley has the fires of hell burning inside him and a sadness that surpasses it by eons. Either he’ll burst into flames or drown in his misery and frankly it’s looking like a nice day for a swim.

His poor angel. His poor, poor angel.

Aziraphale hasn't shed a tear all through the night, though he hardly needs to outwardly express his anguish. He leans away from Crowley, his eyes dead, and simply says, “We’re visiting Anathema tomorrow.”

Crowley nods. “Okay.”

“Whatever she tells us...we won’t do anything until...until it’s clear there is a very real danger present.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale stands and retreats to their bedroom without another word.

He leaves Crowley on the couch, alone with his thoughts once more.

 

Miles away, but not far away enough to warrant traveling by car, a young boy stirs in his sleep. A seedling of excitement takes root in his chest.

Two of his friends have returned to Tadfield.

 

The knocking at Anathema’s door suggests the person doing the knocking is wide awake and ready to get the day rolling with a friendly visit. Anathema’s alarm clock, displaying a glowing red _six_ followed by a _three_ and a _four_ , suggests otherwise.

Groggy and not really having it, she gives her boyfriend beside her a lazy smack. “Newt. Neeeeeeewt.”

Newt doesn’t stir, dead to the world.

“ _Newt_.”

Not even a nose twitch. Anathema rolls her eyes, begrudgingly crawling her way out from under the covers. She slides on her glasses and trudges downstairs.

Two figures are standing outside the front door. The knocking seems well mannered, but Anathema grabs a kitchen knife just in case. She is tired and agitated and _not_ putting up with any funny business at this early an hour, thank you.

“Who’s there?” she hollers through the door.

“Ah, sorry to bother you!” A familiar voice answers. “We were just in desperate need of some prophecies.”

Anathema places the knife on the counter and opens the door. Two very tired celestial beings stand before her. A baby she has never seen before is strapped to the demon in a baby bjorn, bouncing giddily.

“Looks like we could all use some coffee.” She lets them in.

 

Crowley has his head in one hand and the other around Aziraphale’s hand.

“You burned all of them.”

Anathema looks regretfully down into her mug, sloshing around the liquid remains. “I didn’t want to live the rest of my life as a descendant. I’m sorry...If I’d known what you two were up against-”

“It’s not...it’s not your fault,” Aziraphale assures her. He’s staring off into an invisible abyss. Crowley fear if he let go of him he’d go falling right in. “Agnes probably predicted you were going to burn them anyway.”

Anathema nods. “Yeah. So, what happens now? Stay in Tadfield and...wait?”

Aziraphale sighs heavily. “It’s all we can do, besides a more...more rash approach. But hell forbid it comes to that.”

“Heaven forbid,” Crowley adds weakly.

Abigail, still attached to him by the baby bjorn, has grown tired of not being the center of attention (at least literally). She tries to meet Crowley’s gaze and her lip quivers when he refuses to do so. Her crying starts low and quiet then erupts like the cataclysmic volcano of Pompeii.

Aziraphale unclips her from the carrier and slides her into his own lap. Her cries lessen, now satisfied she’s of someone’s fixation.

“If something does happen,” the angel assures Anathema, “We don’t put Tadfield in danger.”

“Don’t worry about us.” Anathema smiles sadly. She reaches out and squishes Abigail’s cheek lightly. “Just do what’s best for her. If you ever need anything, we’re just down the road.”

 _Not much you can do_ , Crowley nearly spats, but his anger is wise enough to know when not to reveal itself. All the good any of them can do is sit around the kitchen island, spilling their woes, letting whatever happens happen.

There are ways of avoiding the uncertain inevitable. Ways that Aziraphale would shut down immediately. Ways that wouldn’t, in actuality, have to involve Abigail at all. But these ways would be permanent, and just as devastating in a different sense.

So as of now, Crowley will wait just like everyone else.

“Well, we’ve kept you long enough.” Aziraphale hoists Abigail onto his hip and stands. “Let’s g-”

There’s a knocking on the door. The tempo is faster than the last ones, and lighter like a child’s. That’s because it is a child. Even without the aid of prophecies, Anathema knew Adam Young would show up for a visit too.

“Come on in, Adam!” she calls out.

The door lock mysteriously undoes itself, and Adam comes bursting into the room. His head is a tumbleweed of bed-headed curls and his windbreaker is doing a terrible job of hiding his wrinkled pajama shirt.

He’s grinning wickedly, in a way only a kid can grin. “You two didn’t tell me you were visiting!”

The boy had insisted on keeping in touch with the two after the mess that was Not-Armegeddan. Aziraphale had insisted on letter writing because of his inability to adapt to the internet, and through a long series of letters the celestial pair had learned a great deal about conspiracy theories, middle school, and some strange animal-collecting game called Pokemon.

A year of this and the pair had grown fond of the boy, and boy seems to have grown just as fondly of them. Crowley doesn’t take credit for it, though Aziraphale assumes they have something to do with Adam’s more cheerful temperament now that he’s older. Who else does the kid have to vent to about unbridaled powers and the stress that comes with being connected to divinity?

It’s pleasing to Crowley how effectively Adam manages to brighten Aziraphale’s spirits. “We live in Tadfield now, actually. Sorry we didn’t give you notice!” the angel smiles widely. “There’s been, well...a lot going on.”

That’s when Adam notices Abigail. His jaw drops, the possibility of them ever having a baby never crossing his adolescent mind. “That’s...a baby.”

Crowley snickers, despite himself. “I remember thinking the same thing when I was handed you. Hard to believe you were once that small?”

Adam approaches Abigail cautiously, unsure how to approach such a creature. There’s something in his expression Crowley finds suspicious, as if he weren’t quite as enraptured by Abigail the way he should be.

Then the boy says, “She has a booger on her forehead.”

And _then_ he says, “Can I hold her?”

 

Dog shows up at the house sometime later, apparently valuing sleep more than his master. He’s let in, of course, because who can resist such a cute face begging at the door?

They’re all sitting in the living room, Newt now joining them with his own cup of coffee. It’s not quite enough to keep him from drifting off again, but Anathema gives him a nudge with her shoulder when she catches him slipping.

Adam has been holding Abigail on the couch for some time now, absolutely mesmerized by the indescribable wonder of an infant. The way their tiny bodies function, how their minds are stimulated, it’s enough to observe for hours on end without ever once getting bored.

Aziraphale and Crowley have been sitting on either side of them, ready to catch Abigail if she were to fall or start flying. They had realized early on as Adam started asking questions about her that there was no sense hiding the dangers behind the scenes.

“I don’t think she’s my dad’s,” the boy explains plainly. “Doesn’t feel like something he’d do. And she doesn’t feel like anything either.”

“What do you mean by that?” Anathema asks, always one willing to discuss auroras.

Adam shrugs. “Just doesn’t. Those horse people felt...angry. She just feels happy. Really happy. I don’t know.”

Crowley locks eyes with Aziraphale. Happy could insinuate an angelic force backstage pulling the strings. “Anything else you can tell about her?” he asks the boy.

Adam smiles as Abigail wraps a little fist around his finger. He’ll be needing to wash it later given all the baby spit that’s on it. “I wish I had wings like her. I mean, I can fly if I _really_ want to, but it’s not the same without wings...What if that angel guy was just messing with you?”

“We’ve considered that,” Aziraphale confesses, “but we’re not sure that’s the case.”

“Then find out,” he responds matter of factly.

Crowley laughs self-deprecating. “There’s no way to do that, kiddo.”

“There were security cameras around the bookshop right? Just look at those.”

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other again, realizing, for not the first time in their lives, how big of an idiot they both are.

“T-The shop doesn’t have any personal cameras, no…” Aziraphale explains, “but all the other ones most certainly did!”

“I’ll bring the car around and we’ll make a visit?” Crowley suggests eagerly.

Aziraphale nods frantically, then turns to Anathema. “If you wouldn’t mind babysitting, of course?”

She smirks. “Go solve your mystery. We’ll take good care of her.”

Newt falls asleep against her shoulder.


	6. Heavenly Hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all answers are satisfying, or answers at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna be almost entirely offline next week, and I’m not sure if I’ll have another chapter out before then, so I’m sorry about the mini hiatus coming up!
> 
> And thank you all for 3000+ hits! You all are too kind <3

It had taken a good deal of angelic charm, and equal parts demonic intuition, to wrangle all camera footage of the street from the past four months. Abigail is only three months old at this part of the story, but Aziraphale had assured Crowley it was better safe than sorry.

And if any angels or demons had happened to canvas the area before Abigail’s arrival, it’d be best to know about it.

Now they have to busy themselves by running through all the footage, all  _ four months _ of it, and pinpointing every tiny suspicious thing.

“Or you could just speed it up,” Adam suggests. “Or skip some parts.”

“You can do that?” Aziraphale asks, absolutely astonished.

“Yeah, you just gotta-” Adam squeezes himself between the couple, taking control of the computer. He grabs the mouse, and the cursor goes flying wildly across the screen. “See these arrows? This one is to speed up. This one is to slow down. The ones with the lines on the end mean skip.” He hands the mouse to Aziraphale.

“Well, doesn’t seem that complicated,” the angel says, clearly still confused.

Crowley takes the mouse from him. “Better get started then.” He hovers over the play button, and is just about to click it when-

“One of us has to be on Abigail duty,” Aziraphale reminds him.

His tone suggests he would like Crowley to take the first shift, as he is very,  _ very _ concerned about whatever may be on those surveillance tapes.

“Fine. I’ll get her.”

 

Adam won’t leave.

This isn’t totally an issue, given Crowley likes the kid. But as the dawn paints the sky with soft orange hues, the demon has to wonder whether the kid’s parents are worried about him or not.

“I’ll just tell them I was chatting with the new neighbors,” Adam assures him, fingers roaming through the strands of the living room carpet. Abigail is propped up in his lap, tiny eyelids fluttering as she begins to doze off.

“And they won’t be concerned with their twelve-year-old son talking to a couple of strangers?”

Adam scoffs. “You two aren’t strangers. I’ll just say you used to be my gym teachers or something.”

Crowley huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, they’ll fall for that. Seriously though, you should get home. Off with you.”

Adam pouts, but gives in regardless. Carefully, he passes Abigail over to her father and nudges Dog awake with his foot. The small hellhound, who had been quite content up to this point, growls lowly. All Adam has to do is shoot him a look and he’s back to his obedient self again.

Crowley positions Abigail to where she’s nestled in the crook of his arm. Her face wrinkles in minor disgust, but soon enough she gives in to her fatigue and falls deeply asleep. It’s been a big day for such a tiny baby. So many new people to meet, a whole new house to get accustomed to.

If Crowley weren’t so conflicted about her existence, he may go as far as to say she looks adorable.

Adam comes to a slow halt before the front door. He turns around, his eyebrows scrunched tightly together. “Do you think I’ll have to take care of her?”

Crowley snaps his gaze up to him. “Wassat?”

Adam looks down at his shoes. “If she is evil or whatever...do you think I have to defeat her? Is it all because I didn’t do what I was supposed to?”

Crowley blinks. “No. No no no- _ No _ , Adam. She’s not...Abigail is our responsibility. It won’t come down to that. You’ve got nothing to do with this.”

The former antichrist swivels on the balls of his feet. “Well, I kinda like her. She’s funny. My parents don’t want another baby, so it’s cool to have one I can play with.”

An aggressively warm ball of fuzzy feelings is shoved down Crowley’s throat. It’s pushed all the way down to his chest, and is making quick work of burning him from the inside out. “I-I’m sure she likes you too, Adam. Now seriously, get outta here. I’d rather you not get grounded so you can visit her tomorrow.”

Adam smiles. It’s only a little bit forced, but by tomorrow it should be as radiant as ever. Hopefully. He opens the door for Dog, and the two of the finally take off home.

Abigail has her tongue sticking out. It’s not forked, then again it shouldn’t be. Crowley’s serpent days are long behind him anyhow. The eyes are the only thing that stayed. Thank Satan she has Aziraphale’s eyes. Blue is one of the loveliest colors in his opinion.

Just another unavoidable reminder of how Abigail is their daughter, and no matter what purpose she has in their lives, a part of them is in her.

Why did he ever have to fall in love? The idiot angel hold him he gave his sword to Adam and Eve and just like that he’s smitten? Immortality would be so much easier if he didn’t have so many hang-ups. He could be galavanting off somewhere, committing demonic acts, spreading temptation across the world. Well, actually if his life hadn’t gone the way it has so far he’d be fighting a bunch of angels right now.

And yet, as Crowley questions the worth of love in his life, as opposed to a life of normality in the eyes of Hell, he finds the two don’t balance out in the slightest. Bless it all, all the worry is worth the risk.

He is far too tired to be angry with Abigail. Even if he was bursting with energy, the blame isn’t to be put onto her anyway. It’s not to be put anywhere, really. The source of their problems stem from forces so much bigger than the three of them could ever comprehend.

Especially an infant such as her, who hasn’t even began to talk properly.

“You’re something little one.” His whispers are but a feather hovering in the air. “You and your father have gone and made me soft. How dare you.”

Abigail smacks her lips together in her sleep. Her tongue disappears and in its place is a trail of spit. Crowley wipes it up with the end of his scarf, then puts her to bed.

 

There’s an Aziraphale-shaped shadow cutting through the light of the computer monitor. It’s been completely rigid for hours now, and no matter how many times Crowley has reminded him of taking shifts there’s just no tearing Aziraphale away from his task.

Now on his fourth try, Crowley approaches his husband from behind and clasps him firmly on the shoulder. “Alright. Shift’s over. Make way for the demon.”

The only part of Aziraphale that moves is his pointer finger at the screen. “Someone was canvasing us, a month before Abigail arrived.”

Crowley follows his finger, squinting to properly make out the figure in question. If he were still a snake, he would snarl through his fangs, “ _ Hastur _ .”

“He’s not the only one,” Aziraphale informs him with a low murmur. “Micheal also made rounds by the shop, on more than one occasion.”

Crowley cups his jaw in his hand, brain trying to catch up. “Both sides have been keeping an eye on us…Must really consider us a threat.”

“We did help prevent Armageddon,” Aziraphale reminds him. His voice is tight with worry, and a not-so-subtle hint of anger. Crowley squeezes his shoulder harder.

“Abigail’s wings...black and white...you don’t suppose both sides are working together on this one?”

Aziraphale sighs sharply through his nose. “They’re mostly gray. Gray...gray isn’t anything. And Adam said she didn’t feel demonic in nature.”

“Yes, but you add some angelic essence in there and it all cancels out then, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know Crowley!” Aziraphale leaps from his chair, tearing himself from Crowley’s touch. He paces fretfully around the room, arms crossed at his chest. “Anything’s possible! I-If she’s really not a gift from God, then I don’t...I don’t know where she came from. Or  _ what _ she is.”

Crowley doesn’t try to approach him, or even offer a rebuttal. Clearly Aziraphale needs to blow off his anxieties, and he is just there to listen. So he waits for Aziraphale’s pacing to slow before asking, “Did you watch ‘til the day the basket showed up?”

“No,” Aziraphale admits. He tries to wipe his eyes discreetly, but he’s just not that sneaky. “I don’t know...if I want to.”

That’s when Crowley finally comes near him. He offers a slender hand for his angel to take, and Aziraphale clings to it like a cliff’s edge. “That’s why we’re taking shifts. Go. Lay down a while, even if you don’t sleep. Just clear your head.”

Aziraphale nods, eyes downcast. “Right. You’re right. You’ll...grab me, if anything important happens?”

“Yes, but you  _ have _ to rest first. Look at you, worried like The Devil.”

“Oh, Heaven forbid.”

They break into slow smiles, Crowley laughing silently. He lifts Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss against his knuckles. “To bed with you. I don’t wanna hear a peep from that room.”

 

Most of the security footage is dreadfully boring. As a demon with a short attention span Crowley has a hard time not spacing off.

Traffic, traffic, demon here, angel there, more traffic, loiterers, the two of them entering/exiting the bookshop, typical everyday life stuff. There’s a bit of nostalgia that comes with watching their lives revolve around their old place of residence (their old home, if he wants to get all emotional about it). But besides that, Crowley might as well be watching paint dry for fun.

Luckily for Crowley, it just so happens he has a remedy for his boredom. Last Christmas, despite insisting receiving gifts on such a holy holiday is offensive for a demon, Adam had sent him a portable cassette player. He has no idea where the boy got it (probably his attic, given how dust covered it was), but it’s safe to say all offenses were forgotten.

Crowley plugs in a set of earbuds and slides his  _ Best of Queen _ cassette into the player. Freddie Mercury and his gang carry him through hours upon hours of footage. It’s amusing at some points how the music lines up with the walking of some pedestrians.

More traffic, traffic, J-walkers, traffic traffic, basket.

The fated wicker carrier appears out of nowhere, gone one moment and there the next. Frantic just as much as he is puzzled, Crowley sets back the footage and slows down the frame rate (another trick Adam taught them).

A small ball of light, no bigger than a baseball, falls from the fly. It lands on the front steps of the bookshop, bursts like a firecracker, and turns into a basket the next.

No demons or angels in sight. Just a basket, and Crowley just a few meters down the way.

There was no outside involvement. At least, none to be obviously seen.

Crowley laughs, absolutely relieved.

Then Freddie Mercury's voice shifts to a much lower octave.

_ ‘Ello, Crowley. _

Another reptilian feature Crowley had abandoned long ago was being cold-blooded. Now his bloodstream has turned to ice. He whispers, not quite as strongly as he would have liked, or as sure of himself either. Mostly because part of him wants to deny this exchange is happening at all.

“Hastur…”

_ Seems you two have caught on to our little operation. I never thought you were going to catch on. _

“We’re not as dumb as you’d believe,” Crowley manages. He’s a handful of syllables away from stuttering uncontrollably. “What the hell do you want?”

_ I want you to step outside Crowley, and come with us willingly. _

He takes a glance outside the window and sees only darkness. “And why should I do that?”

Suddenly, from that darkness, sparks ball after ball of hellfire. Each one is held in the palm of a demon, their features illuminated in sickly orange light.

_ We burn down this cottage, and those angels of yours go up in smoke. _

The fire is close enough to lick the windows. Crowley knows Hastur, and Hastur loves fires. Specifically setting them. He won’t hesitate to let all of Tadfield burn.

Crowley pauses the footage and the cassette, then stiffly stands up from the computer chair. There’s no questioning the orders, or resisting them. All he can do is follow them, with the slim hope Hastur won’t kill his family anyway.

Wait. That is absolutely what is going to happen.

Screw this then.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the all house lights come on at once. Instead of glowing normally, the electrical current is amplified and they all burst at once in a flash of light akin to holy light. In the brief amount of time he’s bought himself, Crowley races to Abigail’s room, grabbing her and the baby bjorn faster than the average mortal can blink.

“AZIRAPHALE, WE HAVE TO GO!”

There’s stirring from the other room. “..wh-?”

“GOTTA GO NOW! DEMONS OUTSIDE! HELLFIRE AND BAD SH-”

There’s a muffled  _ woosh _ from outside, and the whole cottage erupts into flames.


	7. Same Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Times change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guess I won't be leaving you all on a cliffhanger bc somehow I was able to whip up another chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> Also the amazing Leeta made fan art!!! https://twitter.com/Leetaliel/status/1138845903492542465?s=19 Thank you so much again, it’s beautiful!!!

This is what should have happened:

Aziraphale should have gone out like flash paper the moment the hellfire spread across the cottage. His life should have ended and his being would henceforth be unable to inhabit another body, as he would no longer be anything.

Here is what actually happens:

He doesn’t.

Something....unusual happens. That’s the right word for it.

His body dies. Instantly. All that’s left of him is a puff of smoke and the smell of charred spruce. Don’t ask why barbecued angels smell that way; they just do. Following his disintegration, Aziraphale’s being should be off to find out once and for all where angels go when they die.

At first, he believes the answer to be the bookshop.

Heaven is much more pristine and orderly than most humans would like. It’s only a paradise for those who enjoy white walls and equally white floors. The bookshop, filled to the brim with books and dust mites, is not that ideal utopia.

Aziraphale is not in a traditional heaven, though he is in _his_ heaven. And he is the only one there. No one is frequenting the streets or nearby shops. For blocks on end, until the white abyss acting as his barriers very far away, there is not another living soul to be seen.

Or dead soul, if souls can be dead. Which Aziraphale believes he is.

He had no idea being dead would be so incredibly lonely.

His heart aches for Crowley, who will miss him dearly, but races profusely for Abigail. His heart isn’t actually moving, or real, but the very real terror of his daughter dying in the flames is. There’s nothing he can do about it but worry, and worry he will.

Then comes the knocking. It’s coming from the bookshop, but the inside. Not having anything else to do, Aziraphale rushes over and opens the door.

He thinks there’s no one on the other side. Then he looks down.

Abigail is staring up at him, eyes wide, cheeks shiny with slobber.

Tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh no, Abby. Oh _Abby._ ”

He falls to his knees, unable to feel the contact of the concrete against his shins. He reaches out to comfort her.

“It’s okay dear. You’re okay now. No one...no one can hurt you. Your dad’s r-really sorry he...he couldn’t-”

Abigail scowls at him. She slaps away his hand.

Aziraphale quits his apologies with a start. He stares at her in shock, and eventually the realization dawns on him. The thicker legs, the extra curls on her head, the buck teeth sticking from her gums.

“You’re not my Abby.”

Not-Abigail grins, displaying her teeth proudly. “Wrong!”

Wrong. Her first word. Despite everything, pride fills Aziraphale’s chest. Oh, if only Crowley had been here to hear it.

Actually, that would be bad. And it’s not her first word, really. Before Aziraphale’s very eyes, Abigail ages at an alarming rate. She skips right past her toddler years and goes straight to her later first decade. Two wavy pigtails stand poised on either side of her head, and her taller form blocks nearly a quarter of the doorway.

“C’mon, dad. I won’t be six forev’r.”

 

Crowley has no memory of how they survived the fire. He’s sure at some point he had to throw himself out a window given the shards of glass in his side, and at another point he may have had to fight past a demon or two. No matter what happened, he has made it to the safety of Anathema’s front yard. And with him is Abigail, tucked safely in her baby bjorn, screaming her bloody head off.

A light comes on from upstairs. Eyesight blurred from all the smoke, Crowley believes it to be a figment of his imagination. But as more air enters his lungs and his head clears up, he knows help is coming. He unstraps the bjorn and lays Abigail carefully down in the grass. Her crying still refuses to cease.

He tries to shush her, putting a finger to his lips that starts to shake. There’s no telling if the demons are planning on hunting them down further, and right now Abigail is a tiny beacon. But as the air passes his lips they begin to quiver, and as they begin to quiver he begins to weep.

Every sob that racks his body expels him of his remaining energy. By the time Anathema and Newt make it outside, he’s clinging to consciousness.

Anathema barks out orders too muffled for him to hear. As she scoops up Abigail, Newt attempts to lift the demon into his arms. Disoriented, Crowley hisses at him, losing his balance and falling to his side. The couple raise Crowley back to his knees, speaking over each other to understand what’s happened.

All Crowley tells them is, “I’ve lost him...I’ve lost him again.”

Then he falls into the worst sleep of his life.

 

The bookshop appears untouched, at least in its days before the move. The last displays he ever set stand as poised as ever, and the suitcase filled with his books of prophecies sit safely on his desk in the study.

They’re all gone now, burned to ash just seventy years late. At least they’re still here for him to enjoy. Unless Aziraphale or the books won’t be staying here much longer.

Standing on her tiptoes, Abigail pulls the suitcase onto the floor. It’s almost too heavy for her frail arms to manage, but manage she does. She digs her arms in until they’re elbow deep, a rustling coming from inside. “Whatcha want to take back, dad?”

Aziraphale, far too overwhelmed to understand anything that is going on, stares at her dumbly. “I’m sorry?”

“Whatcha want? Nixon? Martha the Gypsy? I-Igna...Ig-nate-tines Sile-bale-ah?”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “Ignatius Sybilla?”

Abigail perks up. “I almos’ had it! D’ya want dat one?”

“The one I-? Do I want it? W-Where can I _take_ it? Sweetheart, I’m...are you-?”

“You’re dead.” Abigail pulls a thick book of prophecies from the suitcase and slaps her hand on top. “I’m not. If y’wait ano’tter few minutes, I will be.”

Panic strikes Aziraphale hard. “You’re _dying?_ ”

“Growin’ up. I’z same thing.” Abigail holds out the book, Ignatius Sybilla printed neatly across the cracked leather cover. “You sh’d hurry. I’ll explain it all anoth’r time. Maybe. Please don’t come back.”

“Wait! Explai-!?”

But Abigail has already thrust the book into his hands, and he has already disappeared.

 

Abigail sticks her pinky into the mysterious orange goop on the side of her lunch plate. She licks it hesitantly, wrinkles her nose, and spits it back out on her napkin.

“No dice? I thought you’d like them puréeed!” Her dad whines. This has been his sixteenth failed attempt to get her to eat her carrots, and Crowley being Crowley is determined to find a solution to this conundrum.

Abigail shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hands. “S’too yucky! I don’t like da sweetness!”

Crowley leans over across the kitchen island and peels her hands away. “You’re more into savory things like your dad. You _will_ eat them one day though, little lady.”

This is the same little game they’ve been playing since the earliest she can remember. Definitely, she crosses her arms and turns her head sharply the other way. “No!”

She’s smirking. Crowley is too. “Yes!”

“No!”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“No no no no _no!_ ”

“Then I’ll sneak them in your desserts!” he threatens.

“Then I won’t eat dessert.”

Crowley laughs. “Yes you will.”

Abigail gives in, as she always does at this part of the argument. “Yes I will...Can I not eat them today though?”

That’s how this conversation always ends, with Crowley giving in with a roll of his eyes. “Finish your sandwich and I’ll consider it.”

The trick is to take off running once she’s eaten the rest of her lunch and take refuge with Newt in his office. And take off she does, taking the stairs two at a time and grinning wildly. She throws open the door, startling her uncle and nearly causing him to fall out of his desk chair.

“Did you finish your lunch?” he asks as he regains his balance. All four legs have almost made contact with the floor again when she throws herself into his lap and sends him scrambling again.

“Mmhm! Whatcha writin’ today?”

Newt gets them both upright. He adjusts his glasses while Abigail is already reaching for his papers. He has just enough time to tear them away from her before the crinkles them with her destructive tiny hands. “Oh, more of that alien story.”

“With da swh’rds lady and da spaceship?”

“Yep. That’s the one…”

It had been the very same novel Newt had been trying to craft all that year. Last year, he’d tried his hand at realistic fiction, but found writing about real-life time periods too boring and at times depressing. The year before that, he had written a mystery novel, but the mystery was too convoluted for even him to solve. Nevertheless, novel-writing is a hobby Newt has stubbornly refused to give up, and seeing how he doesn’t need a computer to do it it’s one of his only hobbies.

“What’s happening?”

“Oh, the sword lady’s taking down another monster. I have to figure out how she’s going to do it. This monster is immune to swords.”

Abigail picks at her nose. “No one is i’moon to swh’rds.”

“Well, this monster is.”

He begins to explain it to her, in classic Newt-fashion, and Abigail finds herself staring out the window instead. Tadfield is as crisp and green as ever, a rich land of exploration for a six-year-old. Maybe after Newt is done rambling, she’ll go find the Them and do just that.

Suddenly, Abigail feels a bit faint. She winces, scrunching her eyes together as the brief spell passes. When she opens her eyes, there’s a well-dressed man standing in the yard. He’s got a book in his hands and a funny look on his face.

Abigail points his way. “Whose dat?”

Newt stops talking and takes a look. His face pales, and for some reason Abigail gets the feeling she should be as startled as him. Only she can’t figure out why.

“Abby, why don’t we go...go see him?” he asks her oddly. Abigail jumps off his lap, takes his hand, and lets her lead him downstairs.

Back in the kitchen, her dad is scrubbing the abandoned purée off her plate. His eyes are fixated on the sink, 45° below the angle he needs to be looking in order to see their new visitor.

“C-Crowley?”Newt stammers.

“What?” Crowley whips his head around, still missing the man outside.

Abigail is happy to tear herself free and run up to the window. “Look! We have a visit’r!”

Finally, Crowley sees Aziraphale. He goes rigid, dropping the plate on the ground. It’s plastic, so it only bounces and rolls away, leaving a soapy trail in its wake. Abigal watches it hit the wall and fall flat against the floor.

She may be little, but Abigail is keen enough to know if something’s wrong.

“Dad? Who is that?”

Crowley doesn’t speak or move or do anything for a very long moment. Then quietly, he steps out the front door and slams it behind him.

He says something too quiet to be heard, then much louder he cries, “Y-YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! WHERE THE HEAVEN HAVE YOU BEEN?!”


	8. Past and Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions are had. Times yield change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!!!! Thank you all for being so patient. I couldn't wait to get back online to get this chapter out. I'm really excited for what's coming next :D

Six years prior to their reunion, Crowley bolts upright from a terrible, terrible sleep.

He’s been laid on a strange bed. Strange in that it doesn’t belong to him, and lacks a certain angelic scent. In recent memory, there hasn’t been a single slumber he’s woken from that was met with such a sterile smell. Sterile in that it’s wrong. Wrong because Aziraphale isn’t here. Aziraphale isn’t anywhere. Aziraphale is gone.

Everything is wrong now.

The real scent (pine needles, lavender, and a hint of mothballs) singes his nostrils. His insides twist themselves into knots, already struggling to compensate for the lack of excess blood in his body. He’ll live, of course, thanks to the miracles of first aid and divine healing. It takes more than a few shards of glass to fell any demon, and Crowley is more than just _any_ demon.

What follows will be what kills him.

There’s a light knock on the door. He gives no response, but Anathema enters all the same. She nudges the way open with a bump of her hip, as she carefully balances a tray of bandages and herbal tea.

The resigned look on her face must come from a lifetime of following orders from the past. In her eyes, Aziraphale’s death must come as another determined event in the grand scheme of things. Normally, humans go through five stages of grief; Anathema must only go through one.

She sets the tray down on the bed beside her, taking a seat on the edge and keeping her distance. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for three days. You’re wrappings need replaced.”

Crowley runs his fingertips along the gauze wrapped around his torso. He still doesn’t speak.

Anathema reaches for the tea. She lifts it up, trying to pass it gently to him. Crowley barely has to shake his head for her to pull it away. She takes a sip herself.

“Abby-how’s...Abigail.”

His words are chopped up like mince meat, but Anathema is able to make them out. “Unharmed. We bought her a crib. She’s sleeping right now, but if you want to see her-”

“No.”

Anathema nods. She takes one more sip of her tea, then places it back on the tray. Her eyes have softened now, bordering on sympathetic. Maybe something more. “I’m sorry.”

There the last words Crowley wants to hear. I’m sorry means all of this is real. I’m sorry means Aziraphale’s death is final. No matter how desperately he clings to denial his angel is never coming back to him. A part of Crowley is never coming back either.

His tears come silently, streaking down his cheeks one at a time. Anathema reaches a hand out and clasps it over his own.

“Stay here for a while. That horseshoe over the door will keep you safe...It wouldn’t be any good for you to be alone right now.”

Crowley looks straight into her eyes, peering past her soul. He can sense her good intentions, but the ill intentions of others outweigh them. “A horseshoe won’t stop them.”

Her jaw tightens. “Then tell me how we do.”

 

In the present, Crowley has just finished yelling at his dead husband, who is a lot less dead than he has been for the past six years.

Now that’s he’s done yelling and his lungs are raw, there’s not much else to do but catch his breath and stare. Stare at Aziraphale’s crisp clothing, untouched by flames. Stare at the ancient book in his hands, only held together by sheer willpower. Stare straight into his dazzling blue eyes, beady with confusion and bright with longing.

There’s no explanation for the angel’s miraculous survival. Therefore, Aziraphale can’t be real.

“What kinda trick is this now? GABRIEL? BEEZLEBUB?” He calls out to the bushes, then to the sky. Certainly there are other worldly forces at work here. It’s not as if magical fuckery isn’t common in his life already. The past six years have been a testament to that. “COME REAR YOUR UGLY MUGS INSTEAD OF HIDING BEHIND YOUR MIRACLES, COWARDS!”

“C-Crowley!” The apparition croaks. “It’s not them! I’m okay! Keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice-? KEEP MY VOICE DOWN?! YOU DARE USE MY ANGEL-?”

“Crowley-!”

“AS A PAWN AGAINST _ME?_ I DID MY GRIEVING! YOU CAN’T EXPECT ME TO-”

“ _CROWLEY!_ ”

It’s apparent Aziraphale didn’t mean to bark as loud as he did. A quick blush spreads across his face, worry dragging his features downwards. Only his angel would be so bashful of his anger.

“You’re...you’re real?”

Aziraphale nods desperately. “I am.”

Crowley takes a step forward, nearly stumbling. “You’re _alive?_ ”

A flash of a smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. “It’s a surprise to me as well. Crowley, I...i-it was the strangest thing. Abby...Crowley-?”

Six years. Six lost years and Crowley has wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around his angel and hold him tightly. So he does exactly that. His arms lock around Aziraphale’s middle, one of his hands rising up to run through his blond hair. He tucks his head into the crook of his neck, basking in his scent. Vanilla and vintage paper and midday mist.

A sob rises to his throat. He fails to keep it down.

Aziraphale manages to slink his arms free. He holds onto Crowley with a fury. “It’s alright, dear. It’s alright. I’m here. I...I _died_.”

Crowley chokes out a yes.

“But I’m...Abby, she...she saved me. S-She gave me this book and...how long have I been gone?”

“S-Six years, you bloody n-no good angel. You-” His insult is slain by the overpowering of his tears. Aziraphale goes very still.

“Six years...? T-That’s one for every...every thousand. Oh _Crowley_ -”

Now they’re both teary messes, lost souls who have been without their tether for far too long. Angels who fell not from heaven but from the salvation that was their love.

Six years compared to six thousand is but a blink of an eye.

Six years taken from raising their child together is an eternity no one should have to endure.

 

Four days into the two-thousand, one-hundred and ninety-one they would spend apart, the same night Crowley woke up for good, he limps into Anathema’s bedroom. There’s already a chair propped up next to Abigail’s crib. It’s scary how accurate Anathema can be without the aid of prophecies.

Crowley takes a heavy seat, wincing as a bolt of pain shoots up his side. Miracling it away is far too risky, and the demon barely has the energy to think at this point. Best to suffer, in the hopes of ensuring Abigail’s safety.

He peers over the edge of the crib, daring a look inside. Abigail is wide awake, but not as wiggly as she normally is. Her blue eyes pierce straight through Crowley, bringing him immediately to tears. Despite her limited grasp on their situation, she appears saddened. Perhaps his grief is so great he’s passed it to her.

Crowley dips a hand into the crib. Abigail reaches a tiny hand up, remarkably. She latches onto him, gurgling lowly.

“It’s just you and me now.”

Abigail gapes at him, blinking heavily. She may be awake, but not for much longer.

“I’m sorry...Y-Your dad died because of me. I let him down...but I won’t do the same to you. Y-You and me...we’re gonna take on all of them. They’ll be sorry they ever took your dad away from you.”

Abigail’s hand starts to slide out of his grip. Crowley gives it a faint squeeze then lets it fall to her side.

“I won’t be the best father.” He laughs, despite himself. “I’ll be pretty shit at it, to be honest. Look at me, already teaching you how to swear...but I will _always_ have your back.”

In her sleep, Abigail rolls her head to the other side, exposing her tangled curls. Crowley weaves his fingers through them until their as straight as he can make them.

“God...if you take her...you will have a new kind of hell waiting on your doorstep.”

 

Aziraphale leaves Ignatius Sybilla sitting on the kitchen counter, as if it were just another book to clutter the house with. Lord knows there are plenty of cookbooks and Newt’s failed manuscripts scattered about already. His fingers trace over the cover, pulling away hesitantly as if it may explode.

Crowley has his other hand in a steel grip. “She should be nearby. A real Curious George. Probably saw the whole shebang outside.”

The angel frowns, nodding nervously. “H-How much does she know?”

“Everything. Wasn’t safe to keep anything from her. Neither side has left us alone since…”

“And me? Do...do you think she remembers…?”

Crowley’s red-rimmed eyes gaze into his. “She was just a baby when you died. Humans have fickle memories to begin with.”

“Oh. Right…”

Crowley brings their joined hands to his lips. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles, then bows his head against them. Aziraphale leans against his side, releasing a shaky sigh.

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Just say hello. I’ve told her a great deal about you already.”

“What does she think of me?”

Crowley smiles sadly. “I don’t think she thinks much of anything. Abby’s just a kid after all. Death and all that stuff is just...a little too much for any six year old to really grasp.”

There’s a maturity to his word choice, and the way he arranges the phrases between the pause. The demon Aziraphale fell in love with has changed. He’s softer around the edges, but only because he’s been so broken down from time.

“She’s going to love you, angel. Maybe not right away, but she will.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He holds onto it until his lungs threaten to burst. “Could you call her down?”

Crowley straightens up at his side. “Abby! C’mere sweetie!”

Two bouncy pigtails pop up from behind the kitchen table. Aziraphale pales, his first introduction having already been tampered. Abigail rounds the table on sturdy legs, her hands clasped behind her back.

She’s thickly built, and quite tall for a child her age. Her play clothes are covered in mysterious food stains, and the Queen logo on her t-shirt has faded almost to obscurity. A stray hair dangles over her right eye, and as her peppered wings expand slowly behind her, she brushes it away.

It’s a perfect copy of the Abigail he saw seemingly minutes ago, just appearing more her age. Aziraphale pulls his hand away from Crowley and approaches her cautiously. Carefully, he extends his wings out behind him. His left wing brushes against the kitchen wall, nearly knocking a picture frame to the floor.

Abigail never breaks eye contact with him as she steps closer. Aziraphale can’t shake the suspicion she’s sizing him up, perhaps comparing him to the stories Crowley has been feeding her for years.

“You’re like me,” she states in awe.

A tidal wave of emotions slam into Aziraphale, pushing him to his knees. The frame is finally knocked to the floor, a sharp _crash_ echoing through the room. Neither Abigail or Aziraphale may it any mind.

“Y-You’re like me too,” Aziraphale remarks weakly. “Do you remember me, Abby-Abigail?”

Abigail shakes her head without missing a beat.

“T-That’s okay. I’m...well, I’m the angel your dad’s told you about. The one with the bookshop.”

Abigail grins excitedly. “And the flamin’ swh’rd!”

Aziraphale brightens. “Yes! That’s me. I’m your...I’m your dad. I’m so, so sorry I haven’t been around to see you grow up. S-Something happened…”

“Dad told me y’died.”

“Yes, I-I did.”

“Sooooo...are y’ew a zombie? Uncle Newt writes about zombies s’metimes.”

Aziraphale shifts anxiously. “N-No, I’m not a zombie. Abby...do you by any change remember the bookshop? You were very little when you visited it.”

Once again, Abigail shakes her head. “Dad showed me s’me pict’ers. It was ugly.”

Crowley makes a noise as if he were being strangled. “Abby!”

Aziraphale casts his husband’s worries aside with a quiet chuckle. “Well, I disagree with you, dear. But that’s okay. Are you...are you sure you don’t remember anything about the shop? O-Or about me?”

Abigail eyes him strangely.

“Because...you _saved_ me, Abby. Maybe you don’t remember what happened. It’s a hard story to believe.”

Abigail’s wings tuck themselves away casually. “Mos’ stories are. Uncle Newt thinks mons’ers can be swh’rd proof.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Aziraphale comments. “No one’s sword proof. Even the four horsemen of the apocalypse were-”

Crowley clears his throat.

“Oh. Perhaps you haven’t been told that story yet. Or at least, all the details…”

A long stretch of silence passes. Abigail’s eyes wander aimlessly as any bored child tends to do. Aziraphale slumps further down to the floor, more trapped than he has ever felt before. The fires of hell may not be surrounding him, but the universe’s refusal of an explanation for his family’s heartbreak is worse than burning ever felt.

Crowley lays a hand on his shoulder. “Abby, run off and play for a bit, okay? Your dads have to talk.”

Abigail skips off happily to do whatever Abigails like to do. Aziraphale’s wings droop to the floor like curtains falling from their rods. Bits of glass from the broken frame slice at his feathers. Crowley makes quick work of sweeping the mess up with a dustpan, giving the angel his space.

The picture is left unshielded on the tile. Aziraphale picks it up. A much younger Abigail is hoisted upon Crowley’s shoulders, probably when she was around three years old. Behind the pair is Newt and Anathema, standing fretfully with their arms outstretched in case the child were to fall.

It’s a lovely picture. The love it emanates gives off every indication that the four of them are a true, tight-knit family. A family Aziraphale was never a part of.

Despite the urge to cry, it’s been too long a day to will his tears to return.

“We’re gonna find out what happened,” Crowley assures him. He kneels beside his angel, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Aziraphale doesn’t lean into his touch this time, but the demon refuses to move. The pair has always excelled at reciprocating their feelings, just never outwardly expressing them.

They sit there for a long time before the silence is broken again.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley jumps. “Whassat?”

“That’s what you wanted to say, right? Before I died. A lot of souls that come to heaven have that same regret. I don’t want you to forget that I do.”

His words must come off too ominous for Crowley’s liking, because the demon takes him by the shoulders and forces him to face him. “You’re back now. Going off and kicking down heaven’s door is not an option.”

“Crowley-”

“You _have_ to be here for Abby now,” Crowley cuts him off harshly. “And if you think you can just fix things by raising hell right back at them, well you’re sadly mistaken.”

It’s advice Aziraphale suspects Crowley needed someone to give him once before. The rage stirring in his gut lessens, but may never fully go away.

To reassure him, Aziraphale leans in and kisses Crowley passionately. He feels the anguish Crowley kisses him back with, and Aziraphale can only hope his presence can help to ease the loss his love has endured.

“Catch me up on everything,” Aziraphale breathes once they part. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”

 

It’s late that same night. Not the night Abigail spent in her newly-bought crib. No, the night she spent in her twin-sized bed with the mint-green comforter and her many stuffed animals. The night she spent with both her dads nearby for the first time in many years.

She hasn’t thought much about Aziraphale’s surprise appearance besides thinking his wings looked kind of cool. Life changes such as this can have their impacts felt much later down the road. Right now, all Abigail feels is the fatigue of a long day of being a six-year-old.

As she drifts off into a deeper sleep, a name that has been floating through her subconscious all her life comes back to her.

_Raphael._

But like every night, she forgets that name as soon as she falls properly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have a clue what's up. If you don't, Raphael may be worth a google.


	9. All in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is caught up. Crowley solves a mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me play cannonball with Christianity and religious lore bc I’m a terrible Christian and only know about Raphael bc of all the tumblr theories *dabs*

Two armchairs, one angel, one demon, one lamp illuminating them from the corner of the bedroom, and a beard.

Aziraphale is astonished he didn’t notice the beard before.

“When’d you start growing _that?_ ”

Crowley strokes his beard with an offended hand. “Uh, a year ago, I’d say. Why? You don’t like it?”

“No. No, it’ll just...take some getting used to.” Like Anthony. Or more importantly, six lost years. “But w-why the beard?”

“Just...easier than shaving. S’all.”

Because shaving takes time, and the Crowley Aziraphale is speaking with now spends his much more wisely than before. But wisely in this sense means spaced out. Prioritized.

Imagine, Crowley taking things slow.

God, what has happened to his demon.

“How long have you been staying here?”

Crowley crosses his legs, making himself comfortable. Evidently, his answer will be more than a number. “As long as you’ve been gone. It was the safest place to stay. Surprising, based on the proximity and...yeah. Yeah, it was safe.”

Aziraphale knits his hands together in his lap. “Is it still safe?”

“‘Course. Horseshoe’s still up there. Still got the emergency vatts of holy water tucked somewhere in the basement. Uh...pretty sure Anathema left that gun of hers in the broom closet.”

“She left her _what?_ ”

“Her gun, yeah. Doesn’t kill them, but keeps them off our backs for a good while. Plus, I think I look pretty kick ass handling it.” Crowley makes a finger gun and pulls the trigger on Aziraphale, whispering _boosh_.

“Okay. That’s...okay,” Aziraphale stammers. “W-Where is Anathema? Is she…?”

Crowley shrugs. “She was in California last I called. That was about a week ago. I think she was visiting family or something.”

“Oh, so she’ll be coming back soon then?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah, love. She doesn’t live here anymore. Hasn’t for almost three years now.”

Aziraphale sits up in his chair. “She doesn’t? Well, what happened? Is it safe for her to be traveling all by her lonesome?”

“She’s a strong, independent woman. Of course she’s safe.”

“But if she was protecting you before-”

Crowley waves his fears away. “Up above and down below only care about us, angel. Besides, Anathema can handle herself. And she needs to be by herself, too. Life in Tadfield just...wasn’t meant for her. It took some time for her to realize it, and I’m sure I kept her lingering here longer than she would’ve liked too. It...it wasn’t easy adjusting to life without you…Needed the extra hand, and all that...”

Aziraphale pictures his Crowley, in the midst of his grief, and decides he would rather not let his imagination carry the thought further. What he can picture, with little difficulty, is the kindness of a young lady and his future efforts to repay that kindness.

“Anyway,” Crowley continues, clearly brushing past his last statement, “She broke up with Newt. Feelings were mutual, though. The fellow technically owns the cottage now, so he’s been here ever since. Kinda like I have a six year old daughter and a thirty-something old son.”

A beat passes.

“We. We have...we.”

Their chairs are only an arms length apart from one another. It’s easy for Aziraphale to reach across and lay a hand on Crowley’s knee, shaking. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

Crowley tries to roll his eyes. “It’s not y-”

“You’ve changed. You’re...worn. Tired. Hardly the flash bastard I knew before...I can't even begin to imagine what you must’ve...I mean, it’s been _years_. Years of fighting all by yourself-”

A hand overtop his cuts him off. “I wasn’t alone,” Crowley assures him, though the tight smile on his face betrays his conviction. “We kept heaven and hell off our backs by our wits alone.” He laughs sharply. “We made a laughing stock of them both. And y’know what else, angel? I figured it out.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Figured what out?”

“All of this. Heaven. Hell. Their agenda. It’s all a conspiracy, angel, and I’ve blown it wide open.”

The beard, as well as dialogue that may have been ripped straight from the 1970s, is anything but comforting to Aziraphale. “Have you now?”

Crowley jumps from his chair. He paces around the room and he wrings his hands together, not that unlike a mad man. “That night, the night those demons killed you, Hastur referred to Abby as an _angel_.”

“Okay?”

“An _angel_ , angel! Hell thinks Abby is one of your old lots. It got me thinking back to Gabriel, about how he claims to have written that note in her basket.”

“He implied it,” Aziraphale corrects him. “That doesn’t mean anything. He could be-”

“Lying. Yes. He is. _Ohhhhh_ , angel he’s been lying this whole time! What are heaven and hell the most upset with us for?”

Aziraphale know she isn’t the brightest of God’s creations, but this question is an easy one to answer. “Stopping their war.”

“ _Exactly_ . Armageddon only comes once-as far as _we know_ -which means any excuse the two had to duke it out is gone. And then comes _Abby_.”

Uneasiness settles in Aziraphale’s gut, churning his insides as if they were in a blender. He grips onto the arms of his chair to ground himself, the realization striking violently. “Heaven convinced hell she’s an angel...that she’s one of theirs.”

Crowley smirks deviously, though there is a murderous glint to his eyes. The truth has been eating away at him for some time, turning him irreversibly bitter. “One hand is all they have to lay on her for hell to retaliate, and they almost got their wish. A few times now. But they haven’t yet, and it’s going to stay that way. It has to.”

Aziraphale stands from his chair now, burning with the same rage as his husband. “Of course they’re not going to! They dare-?! Gabriel-!”

 _Gabriel_. That bastard. No. Worse than a bastard. Worse than Satan. Worse than all the evil there could possibly be in the known universe.

There will be no mercy. Aziraphale is going to kill him.

“Angel…? Aziraphale calm down, love.”

Aziraphale is ripped from his thoughts. Sheepishly, he dims the holy light surrounding him. “Sorry, dear.”

Crowley crosses over to him. He cups Aziraphale’s face with tender hands, a knowing frown digging into his ginger beard. “Remember what I said about raising your own hell?”

Hot tears spring to the angel’s eyes. “I-If _any of them_ think they can take _our_ Abigail away from _us_ -”

“I know-”

“I’ve already missed so _much_. I’m not missing any more!”

“I know, lo-Azirapha- _Aziraphale_ , I know.” Crowley shushes him half-heartedly, rubbing warm circles against his cheekbones. “Tell me about the bookshop. More. There has to be a reason. There has to be another mystery to crack.”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes with a harsh sigh. “There’s nothing more to tell, Crowley! I woke up in Soho. Abigail was there! She was a toddler, then she was as old as she is now. S-She gave me a copy of Ignatius Sybilla-my copy! The copy that _burned!_ A-And as soon as she passed it to me, I was standing in the yard. _With_ the book!”

Crowley nods pensively. “The bookshop. What did it look like?”

“Brimmed as it ever was before w-we moved.”

“And Abby? What did she say to you? Did she recognize you?”

“She did. She...she called me dad, told me she was growing up, as if she _knew_ …But she doesn't, does she? Crowley, she took one look at me and I knew she didn’t!”

Crowley shushes him again, desperately trying to connect the dots. A crazed, panicked look has entered his eyes. It’s the of look a criminal, who has avoided the law most of their life, and is moments away from finally being caught. And knows they will be caught, with no way of avoiding it.

“What is it?”

Crowley doesn’t answer him.

“Crowley, what does this _mean?_ What do you think it means?”

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale, backing away slowly. His legs hit the seat of his armchair, and he goes sprawling down into it. The fall jolts him back to his senses. He gapes up at Aziraphale like a fish discovering they can miraculously breathe air.

Aziraphale kneels down in front of him. “Crowley, do you know what’s going on?”

Gobsmacked, Crowley nods, as if moving through molasses. “I don’t. But I think...Oh fuck, Aziraphale. I think she’s an archangel. I think she’s _me_.”

 

There once was an angel. Let’s call him Raphael, for that is what he was once known as.

Before me and you and long before Abigail, Raphael was one of seven archangels at God’s command. Together, they created the many planets and solar systems and bountiful stars. Though never altogether and seldomly working side-by-side with God.

One of these creations you may already know of. Though maybe not a prime vacation spot, Alpha Centauri is a worthy place to consider visiting when the apocalypse is on your doorstep.

Maybe you’re familiar with Raphael’s story as well. At least, the story tied to this one, and not the more romantic versions Christian worshippers would whip up in an effort to make their texts more interesting. Seven archangels compared to six means a whole other realm of mythology to invent.

See, Raphael was a healer. Not in a sense he could fix broken bones and cure deadly diseases (though he could with ease). Raphel could wrestle with Death themself, bring back souls that had long since passed on, and grant immortality with a flick of his wrist. The only reason he seldom did this, of course, was because God told him not to.

Healers are thought to be caring and selfless, and Raphel indeed inherited both of these qualities. But he was also curious, disobedient, and sensitive. If the universe were to tell him no, he’d demand a reason as to why? And after a certain group of no-good angels egged him on, he finally had asked that question too many times.

There’s no telling which act of rebellion caused God to send him spiraling down into a boiling pot of sulfur. The point is too many questions had been asked, with far too little answers, and the Ineffable Plan would shift because of this. Or maybe it was always involved the Falling of a glorious angel. Who knows? It is ineffable after all.

Rapheal fell until he reached the furthest depths of hell. Betrayed, confused, and saddened in a way few could ever know, he stripped himself of his name. His powers of healing had already been taken, so why not demolish the brand entirely? Lucifer granted him a new set of demonic powers, such as the ability to shift into the form of a serpent, and sent him on his merry way. The way being, of course, to the Garden of Eden.

You should hopefully know the rest of the story, all the way up to when a certain basket appeared on a certain couple’s doorstop. And the tragedy that would unfold shortly afterwards, as Raphael can never quite seem to escape his streak of misfortune.

 

Upon explaining all this to Aziraphale, for the first time in their six thousand year old relationship, he finds the phantom pains of Falling returning to him. The burning of the flesh from his wings, the tearing of his healing essence from his very being, the unimaginable agony that comes with being cast out of one’s home. One’s family. One’s place of belonging.

Aziraphale is all of those things now, but there’s no quite putting the horrors of his past behind him.

Through his tears, Crowley watches as Aziraphale lifts a thumb up to wipe his face clear. “Oh Crowley...why didn’t…?”

The demon smiles weakly. “It’s not something you’d want to remember, angel...Besides, I’m more me than I ever was up...up there. This is me. Me with you. Not...not Ra...not him.”

The look on Aziraphale’s face is tearing him apart. Endless empathy pours out of him like a faucet. “You think Abby has your...those powers?”

Crowley swallows thickly. “It’s the only explanation I can come up with. But from what you’ve said, they...they don’t work exactly the same.”

“So what does this mean?”

Aziraphale is begging for an answer Crowley just can’t give him. Finally, after all this time, maybe he’s finally grasped how God felt before turning him away.


	10. Hereditary Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail sees some familiar, and unfamiliar, faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna be offline again next week, and before I go I’m gonna try to finish my moomin fic. This means this will be the last chapter for a little bit. Sorry to leave you all hanging again!

Abigail’s new dad is...strange. But if there’s anything her old dad has taught her, it’s that being strange isn’t inherently a bad thing to be. After all, he’s the one going around wearing funny sunglasses and hissing like a snake all the time.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact her new dad is strange.

He’s far too cheerful at times, and uncomfortably sad in others. Every look he gives Abigail is fragile, like the soggy cornflakes in her cereal bowl she likes to break apart with a spoon. But Abigail doesn’t like the way her new dad looks at her, often times because the sorrow he emanates is too great for her to comprehend.

What humans tend not to comprehend, they jump straight to disliking. As someone almost human, living among humans, Abigail is guilty of this very same thing.

Because of this, she’s subconsciously avoiding her new dad. Running off when he approaches her, sitting on the side of the couch with her old dad if the option is available, and overall just kind of ignoring whatever he says.

Nothing Abigail does is with the intent to harm others; she is simply a child.

Her old dad has confronted her about her behavior, a few times now in the weeks Aziraphale has returned. At first he was patient, asking her kindly to be polite. Now his patience is thinning. This is out of desperation, of course, but Abigail doesn’t realize this. There are so many things she has yet to realize.

“Young lady, your father is trying to talk to you.”

Abigail smashes her Hot Wheels together, relishing in the sound of metal colliding with metal. She has her back to Crowley, and Aziraphale who is farther off in the kitchen. “I can ‘ear ‘im from ‘ere.”

Smoke curls off the top of Crowley’s head. Literally. The issue has been going on long enough for him to be fuming. “Turn around, put your toys down, and listen to him.”

A bit of paint has chipped off one of her cars. Abigail frowns, wondering what could have caused it.

“ _ Now _ , Abigail.”

There’s a clear warning in his words, though Crowley has never been consistent with dishing out punishments.  _ Now _ doesn’t really mean  _ now _ , the same way  _ fat free _ doesn’t really mean  _ fat free _ .

It comes as a shock then, when her Hot Wheels magically disappear. Abigail whips around like a spinning top, though she has no intention of talking to Aziraphale. “ _ Da-ad! _ ”

“You’ll get them back once you  _ listen to your father! _ ”

Abigail, angry only for the disappearance of her toys, and the changes to her life she does not understand, shouts, “HE’S NOT M’AH DAD!”

Then she storms out of the house and takes off running into the fields.

 

Most parents would worry if their young child ran off into the wilderness on their lonesome. Key word: most.

There are many divine powers Abigail has yet to master, but one Crowley has taught to her they like to call her “Box.” All angels and demons can summon small objects at will that they place in a small, dimensional “box” (In reality, it’s a regular box shrunken down to a microscopic level. The dimensional bit is just added in for fun, as even magical entities like to play make-believe). All Abigail has to do is focus on the object in her box she wants to appear, and it’ll travel to her from the other dimension (while coincidently grow back to its normal size).

In Abigail’s box is a tartan thermos filled with holy water and a lighter “blessed” to ignite into holy fire. Both had been objects Aziraphale had managed to knab before his premature death; another tidbit of info Abigail has yet to realize.

Needless to say, she’s not a six year old you would want to mess with.

Her temper tantrum ends as quickly as it began, but by the time Abigail simmers down she’s a good walk away from home and isn’t in a lecturing mood. Instead of turning back, she continues on her merry way, frolicking in the wild, unmowed grasses of Tadfield.

Sometime into her wanderings, she comes across a bike path between town and the thicker parts of the forest. She stares across the near horizon and spies an indistinguishable shape blocking the way. Naturally, she goes to investigate it.

It, to Abigail’s young horror, is a dead bird. She can’t tell the poor bird died by hitting its head against one of the nearby trees. All she can tell is that is, without a doubt, not alive.

So when she bends down to poke the bird and it suddenly flies away, she has every right to be surprised.

The cloaked figure that appears beside her is also a surprise.

Abigail shrieks, purely as a reaction. Odd-looking fellows aren’t abnormal in her life. Besides, she’s already summoned the thermos to her hand.

The figure peers down at her. From beneath his hood, two soulless sockets stare straight through her. Inky-black smoke pools out from underneath his garments.

IT IS ABOUT TIME WE MEET, RAPHAEL’S OFFSPRING.

Abigail cocks her head. Calmly, she places a hand on the thermos’ lid. “Who?”

YOU, CHILD. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THE OPPORTUNITY TO SPEAK WITH YOU. WE ARE BOUND TO COME INTO CONFLICT THROUGHOUT YOUR LIFETIME. UNDERSTAND THAT YOUR CHOICES AFFECT-

She douses Death with holy water. Or she tries to, anyway. Her aim isn’t very good, and her height does little to improve it. The last remaining horsemen is as dry as a desert, surrounded by a crescent of damp earth.

Death wills the water to fill back into the thermos. He is unwounded, except for his pride. PERHAPS YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND. YOUR POWERS, IF USED FOR SELFISH REASONS, THREATEN TO TEAR REALITY APART. I’M HERE TO OFFER YOU YOUR ONE AND ONLY WARNING.

Abigail tucks her thermos back into her box. The figure is captivating, the same way a growing wildfire is as it approaches one’s house. A trail of goosebumps run up her arms. She crosses them over her chest and shivers.

“It was jus’ a bird…”

Death looms closer.

THAT’S WHAT YOU’LL SAY FOR THE NEXT BIRD, AND ALL THE ONES AFTER. YOU’VE ALREADY BROKEN THE RULES BRINGING BACK YOUR FATHER. THE ALMIGHTY WILL NOT BE SO LENIENT IF ONE OF THEM IS TO DIE AGAIN.

The air draws colder around them. “My dad didn’t die.”

YOUR OTHER FATHER.

“No, he...he jus’ showed up ag’in. I didn’t do anythin.’”

For the second time in his existence, Death is taken aback. In reality, that count is a wee bit higher. Even Death is allowed to fudge the numbers now and then.

SURELY YOU SHOULD KNOW OF...SHE MUST HAVE-

That is when Death comes to a truly terrifying realization.

_ OH NO. SHE DOESN’T. _

All this power in the hands of a six year old, and Abigail doesn’t even know how to use it.

Now it is death who shivers.

Growing from the distance is the sound of bike gears, grinding endlessly against one another. Death turns just as the Antichrist brings his bike to a stop.

Adam Young kicks down his bike stand with a glare. “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

If Death had a working jaw, he’d be gaping.

AH...ER…

Curled up neatly in the bike basket, Dog growls lowly. Adam gives the old hellhound a gentle rub atop his head, rubbing away some of his graying fur.

“You should go. Find some dead people to annoy. There’s no one in Tadfield that needs to see you right now.”

Flustered, Death taps his scythe against the ground and vanishes in a poof of smoke. The soul of an old woman in Minnesota is about to have an interesting conversation with the entity. And a mostly one-sided one at that.

The temperature returns to normal. Abigail uncrosses her arms and beams happily at Adam, as if she hadn’t just stared Death in the face. “‘Ello!”

Minus the suspicious glint in his eyes, Adam smiles back just as happily. “Hello, Abby. What are you up to?”

“Jus’ walkin.’”

Adam nods. “Well, Dog and I are just biking. Want a lift home?”

Abigail shrugs, her way of saying yes. There are only so much walking she can do before she grows bored. Adam leans forward on his seat as she hoists herself up onto the back spokes. Carefully, the Antichrist kicks the stand up and rolls them all out onto the main road.

The countryside flows passed them in a dazzling array of rich greens and golds. Shining from above, the midday sun guides them back to the Pulsifer cottage. Abigail closes her eyes, soaking up the heat, savoring the pure, blissfulness of childhood.

“What’d that skeletal fart want with you?” Adam asks suddenly.

Abigail would shrug again if she didn’t have to risk falling off the bike. “He gave me ah warnin’ or somth’n. I don’t know what he was talkin’ about.”

Adam hums in acknowledgement. “You ever met him before?”

“Nah.”

“Huh...I’ve met him. If he bothers you again, you tell me.”

“But y’er leavin’ soon.”

“Yeah, but I don’t go off to university until autumn. I’m here for a little while longer.”

A little while longer Adam really does have. Summer is quickly approaching its end, and the crisp autumn air as already crept its way into their afternoons. Before they know it, the season will change and Adam will be too loaded with his assignments to call as often as either of them would like.

The two have grown incredibly fond of each other these half a dozen years. It’s a shame they’ll have to part ways so soon. But not forever, and they will certainly meet again later in our story.

“Have you felt anything weird recently?” Adam asks, without a lick of hesitation. He is wise enough to know whatever Abigail doesn’t understand, she will simply skirt around in her answer. There’s no need to dumb down his questions and mock her intelligence.

“What do y’mean?”

“Like...a change. A funny feeling in your tummy. I had one a few weeks ago.”

Abigail shakes her head, though Adam can’t see this. “I ‘ad a fev’r a while ago. I threw up.”

“That’s cool and all, but not really what I meant. Have you noticed anything different about Tadfield, besides Death and all?”

“Not really. My dad came back.”

Adam coasts on his bike a good half minute, mulling over her words. “ _ Which _ dad?”

“He’s got white wings. Kinda weird. He’s a’ight, I guess.”

Tadfield fizzles into a blur as Abigail is thrown forward, colliding with Adam’s backside as the young man brakes  _ hard _ . Dog gives a worried  _ yip _ from his basket. A tension stronger than steel surrounds them all.

“But he died.”

Adam’s voice has grown small and fragile. Abigail doesn’t like it.

“Dat’s what happened?”

Slowly, Adam turns to look at her. “Abby...what did Death say to you? What did he say to you about your dad?”

Abigail’s confusion is morphing into innocent worry. She whimpers, “I brought him back...and dat he has a funny name. Ra-Ra-Rafell.”

Adam faces forward again. His knuckles have gone white around his handlebars. “Hold on tight, Abby.”

He petals onward like the Devil is chasing after them.

 

There are many health benefits to drinking tea. Antioxidants, a lessened change of a heart attack or stroke, and bone protection are a few Aziraphale can name off the top of his head.

His cup of chamomile may be needlessly enhancing his physical needs, but his mental health remains abismal.

Trapped inside the rim, Aziraphale’s reflection stares back at him with profound disappointment. Surely this broken angel cannot possibly be him. Surely this warrior of heaven and humanity’s defender can handle the rejection of one, stubborn child.

Alas, Aziraphale takes another sip and continues on with his sulking.

Beside him, Crowley takes a sip from his own mug. Cranberry-grape juice, arguably the weakest substitute for a fine glass of red wine. Just like the apple juice he had with dinner last night, and the night before that.

Aziraphale addresses the pattern. “Are you not drinking?”

Crowley gives him the same absurd look he did back in ancient Rome. “What do you think I’m doing? Tossing the juice over my shoulder?”

“Alcohol. I meant...you haven’t had a drop since I...got back, as it were.”

A flicker of gloom passes through Crowley’s expression. “Haven’t had a drop since you left...as it were.”

“Oh?” There hasn’t been a single day in Aziraphale’s memory (besides his friend’s slumber throughout the fourteenth century) that he went without some kind of intoxicating liquid in his belly. “Why’s that?”

Crowley shrugs. It’s a wonder where Abigail picked the habit up. “Not safe to be drunk while avoiding demons. Also…”

Aziraphale waits a moment. “Also what?”

“Also...nothing.”

“Oh.”

The angel stares back at himself, ripples tearing apart his form like the apprehension to push the issue further. Crowley leans forward stiffly in his seat, just as antsy it would seem.

“It’s not very fun to drink alone, either…”

There’s a broken tenderness to his tone that does not go unnoticed. Aziraphale gives a small, regretful smile. “No...I don’t suppose it is.”

“I didn’t even try to. After that...that t-time at the bar, with you all-” Crowley makes a wobbly motion with his hand, grimacing strangely. “Y’know.”

“Discorporated. Yes.” Aziraphale finds himself grinning. “That was certainly an odd way to spend Armageddon. I was very glad to find you, though.”

Crowley smiles half-heartedly. “Likewise.” His smile drops. “You didn’t come back the next time, though…”

Aziraphale’s heart clenches in his chest. He reaches a fast hand out to grab Crowley’s. “I’m back now. Question is, am I still your best friend?”

Crowley smiles again. Devious, playful, relieved. There’s the demon Aziraphale fell in love with. “I don’t know. You’ve got some stiff competition with Abby.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Well, it’s one I don’t mind losing.”

Crowley gives his hand a squeeze. “She’ll come around to you. Really. Give her more time.”

There goes Aziraphale’s heart again. “I have all the time to give, but she’s growing up.  _ Already _ grown up.”

“No, she’s not.”

“ _ Six years old _ , Crowley. She might as well be off filing taxes a-and getting her license and starting a family of her own!”

“You know that’s not true,” Crowley childs him. “Believe me, it’s hard watching her get older. I mean, one day I’m changing her diapers, and the next…”

He trails off, eyes gazing into an endless distance Aziraphale could never see.

“She reading picture books to herself, growing out of her clothes...heading off to school…”

And all the while, Crowley is crossing off the years as they go by, wondering how much time he has left with their daughter before he truly, utterly alone. Every birthday is a bad omen, every milestone a reminder of the angel who isn’t there.

It’s beyond Aziraphale how not even once his beloved tried to cope with it all with just one glass of wine.

There’s a frantic cry from a bike going far too fast for its gear setting. Aziraphale braces himself for a crash that never comes. Instead, there is the shuffling of feet on the front porch and the slamming of the front door as it’s thrown open.

The teenager in the doorway is tall, gangly, and has a trimmed bush of golden curls atop his head. Though he has matured a great deal, Aziraphale would recognize Adam Young anywhere.

And he recognize quickly the young man is very, very angry.

“You were resurrected and you didn’t tell me?!”

Aziraphale stares dumbly, setting down his tea. “Er...I forgot?”

Adam glares at him, then opens his arms. “Do I at least get a proper reunion  _ now? _ ”

“Oh-Oh yes!” Aziraphale smiles bashfully. “Of course you do.” He crosses the room, and once he’s close enough Adam has his arms thrown around him. Aziraphale returns the embrace, counseling the boy as best he can.

Astounding how the loss of one person can cause such a rift in multiple lives.

Adam pulls back first, anger redirected. He points an accusing finger at Crowley. “Add  _ you _ didn’t tell me you were an archangel!”

Crowley sips the last of his juice nervously. “Was an archangel. Wouldn’t happen to know any useful information about how that’ll affect Abby, would you?”

On cue, Abby walks into the room, Dog trotting closely by her heels. “What about me?”

Adam ignores her, now focused on Aziraphale. “She met Death today. I don’t think he’s pleased with you coming back.”

 

Strolling down the street at this time is an unsuspecting-looking man. Unsuspecting, minus the terrible toupee he’s put overtop the toad on his head.

He’s close enough to Pulsifer cottage to catch fragments of the conversation happening inside. If he slows his walk, he’ll be able to catch a bit more, which is exactly what he does.

“...course I’ve read up on it. Seem appropriate given I’m the Anti…”

“...resurrection, sure, but different...make life...God-like…”

“Oh that’s not good, especially since…”

“...doesn’t know how…”

“...could teach her.”

“Me? No. And I don’t think I sh…”

“...you said it wasn’t safe to keep...has to know…”

“You really think that? Angel, c’mon-”

“I’ve already died, Crowley...won’t stop coming after...they will not take her too.”

The conversation dies out suddenly. The man halts, enraptured, wondering if it will continue.

Instead, a red-headed girl steps outside. At her side is a grouchy little dog, growling lowly. The girl eyes the man incredulously, as if she had walked in on Santa Claus coming down the chimney.

No one inside seems to notice she’s missing. An opportunity presents itself. The man takes a step towards the house.

The dog is snarling now. Any wrong moves and they’ll start barking. The man halts once more. How close can he get, he wonders.

Luckily, the girl comes to him. She approaches him aloofly, possibly because she just noticed his poor excuse of a disguise.

“Y’ah demon?” she asks.

Hastur grins nervously, taken aback by her natural confidence. “A-And you’re an angel. You know what demons like me do to little girls like you?”

The girl shrugs.

“I’ll tell you what: it’s not as nice as what those in heaven will do to you. Or your parents. You don’t want something bad to happen to them, do you?”

Again, the girl shrugs.

“Er...well, if you don’t-”

He sets his hand aflame. The girl steps back, hand flying behind her back.

“The fire will get both of ‘em this ti-”

Something slams into Hatur’s chest. Light and metallic and  _ burning _ . Pure, unruly agony takes him, tearing every fiber of his being apart, to the point all that is left of him is  _ pain _ .

At least the holy water kills him quickly.

 

The shrill bark from Dog sends Crowley into an immediate panic. He looks at the open door, stomach dropping, and sprints outside. Aziraphale and Adam and not far behind.

“ABIGAIL?! ABBY?!”

Abigail has her back to them. Something in front of her is far more interesting than their explosive concern. Crowley sweeps her up into his arms, turning her away from the demonic sludge once he realizes what it is.

“You’re okay, sweetie. You’re okay.  You did just what you were supposed to do. It’s all good now.”

Abigail squirms around so she’s still looking at the bubbling puddle. She goes very still. “Is ‘e dead?”

“Don’t worry about that sweetie. Not now. You’re good. You’re good.”

He puts a hand behind her head, rocking her gently. Aziraphale approaches cautiously, his panicked eyes begging Crowley for an explanation. From context clues, he soon figures it out himself.

“How much do you think he heard?” the angel frets.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Crowley answers frankly. “There may be more nearby. We better get back ins-”

In what seems like a blur, Abigail’s swings spring from her back, smacking Crowley right in the nose. He stumbles backwards as Abigail slutters out of arm's reach. Before anyone can stop her, she shoves her hands wrist-deep into Hastur’s remains.

Mystical, gray light envelops her. The sludge sparkles with a similar shade, then doubles in mass over and over again, stretching towards the sky.

A body takes shape, as revolting and insidious as it appeared before. Even the toupee has reformed.

Abigail pulls her hands away, and Hastur sucks in an ungodly amount of air.

No one moves as Hastur recovers his bearings, patting himself over to find he’s completely dry. His bewildered gaze bounces around the group, stopping once it reaches Abigail.

“What...did you-?”

Then the effects of revival catch up to Hastur, and he promptly passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got the big plot points figured out for this fic, but the little ones are so much fun to come up with on the fly. Anyway get ready for a Hastur redemption arc bc I want my toad man to be nice god damnit


	11. Questionable Morals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about to go down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not actually about to go down. My brother just showed me that Kevin James skit again and now it's all I can think about 
> 
> My mom told me to tell you to mind your OWN DAMN MOTHERFU-
> 
> Oh yeah and once again I played myself and uploaded twice in a week I thought I wasn't gonna get a chapter out. Bonus chapter!!!!

When Hastur wakes, he’s in a chair.

It’s not an electric chair, or any other chair commonly found in hell. Just a regular dining chair a typical suburban family would use in their home. His limbs aren’t even bound to the arms or legs. He could walk right out of (what he assumes to be) the basement of Pulsifer cottage.

Or he could try, if the angel known as Aziraphale wasn’t pointing a water gun at him. A water gun, hence the name, isn’t inherently dangerous. An angel holding a water gun is, given that the water inside may be holier than normal.

The thought of the liquid alone is enough to make Hastur feel as if he’s burning again. He doesn’t dare move.

Aziraphale smiles kindly. “Good morning. Er, good afternoon, more like it.”

Hastur leans backwards in his chair, not able to sneer. Hopefully his body language is intimidating enough. “Why’d she bring me back? Jus’ so you could torture me for info?”

Crowley steps forward from behind the angel. Propped up on his hip is the little girl, fiddling intently with strands of her hair. “There’s no explaining the mercy of children. But you _are_ here to talk, so you best start with why you were canvasing our property.”

Aziraphale shakes the water gun. Demons are known not to trust one another, but they are loyal to a common goal: spreading evil, whichever way they can. Leaking intel to the enemy goes against that goal. Though Hastur supposes, as he is disloyal by nature, and all other demons are tied to spreading evil, he can still be disloyal to those below without going against his beliefs. After all, he’s _really_ not looking to die again.

“Been canvasing the area for awhile now. Surprised you haven’t taken notice until now.”

“Canvasing it why?” Crowley hisses. The little girl stops playing with her hair, now paying attention.

 Hastur fidgets uneasily in his seat. “We got blondie out of the equation early on.” He looks at Crowley only to avoid Aziraphale’s harsh stare. “But you were too...too crafty for us.”

Crowley smirks sinisterly. “That must’ve been hard to say.”

“Taking you out was taking too long,” Hastur continues. “Tensions have been rising. Both sides are gettin’ impatient. Somethin’s been needing to happen and _soon_.”

“Can’t have war without war,” Aziraphale mutters vexingly. “So what was your plan, then? Were you going to try and cook us up again?”

Crowley stiffens a little at that. Hastur only half-notices this, too amused by the angel’s wording. _Cook them up again_. That’s clever. He should write it down so he can have a laugh with-

Oh. He’s probably not heading back down anytime soon. What a waste of a perfectly good joke. Not that Hastur likes jokes...only good jokes. Really good jokes.

Hell’s plan isn’t exactly funny, either. Hastur clears his throat nervously. He hopes Aziraphale doesn’t have a trigger finger, or a short temper.

“Plan was to take the little angel and bring her to headquarters,” he admits gruffly. “The...Dark Council would decide what to do with her next. One way or another, they’d get the war started.”

One way or another really translates to The Ultimate Way, The Unspeakable Way.

The realization is evident on both their faces. For Crowley, it curls the corners of his lips downward, stretching his face into a mortified and merciless grimace.

Aziraphale’s reaction, however, is more disturbing. The angel simply goes blank, his face unreadable. His eyes however...Oh, his eyes are _blazing_. Burning brighter than all the fires of hell combined.

Hastur has never thought angels to be particularly dangerous. A nuisance, sure, spreading their good will and whatnot, undoing perfectly good evil.

This is the first time he has ever been afraid of one. If all angels are capable of this much anger, maybe heaven really does stand a chance to win the war.

“How long...before your lot were going to take her?” Aziraphale speaks slowly.

Hastur swallows thickly. “W-Whenever the nearest opportunity arose. It did, t-today...before she murdered me.”

The little girl sticks out her bottom lip. “You were actin’ scary. I didn’t mean t’kill you. Be nicer next time.”

The way she’s acting...Hastur can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s not prideful, or annoyed, or any of the other emotions Hastur normally has after he murders someone.

The girl sounds...guilty. That’s the word for it. Hastur never feels guilty for killing anybody. After murdering Aziraphale, he hadn’t batted an eye. There must be some good, ethical reason for her feeling this way. Ethics aren’t really a demon thing, unless they’re bad.

All things are a demon thing if they’re bad.

“So what are you gonna do with me now?” Hastur dares to ask. “I told you what’s afoot. Get on with it if...you’re gonna do something.”

Crowley and Aziraphale partake in a silent conversation. The little girl isn’t invited to join. While this is happening, she’s staring at Hastur, still looking rather off-put with herself.

“What’s ‘ell like?” she asks suddenly.

Hastur blinks. “Wot?”

“‘Ell. What’s it like?”

It’s a question so bizarre and random Hastur feels compelled to answer it. “Cramped. Dark. Smelly. Too many leaky pipes around, if you ask me.”

The girl nods seriously. “Da sink leaks in da bathroom upstairs. Uncle Newt’s supposed t’fix it. He hasn’t yet.”

“It’s real bothersome. How hard is it to miracle a monkey wrench? Or some putty?”

“I like putty. Y’er not supposed to eat it. But sometimes I lick it ‘cause it tastes salty.”

Well, if this little girl goes around licking stuff willy nilly, she won’t survive a day in hell. The Dark Council won’t need to do a thing to her.

“Oi, since when have you been licking your silly putty?” Crowley cuts in. “And _you-_ ” He points to Hastur, “ _Shut it_ , if you know what’s good for you.” He points at the water gun. It’s shaking in Aziraphale’s grip.

“Dad, can I have a turn with the gun?” The girl asks.

“No Abigail. Not right now,” Aziraphale answers calmly.

Abigail eyes him oddly, having been looking at Crowley this whole time. “Dad, can I have a turn?”

Crowley’s face falls further. “You heard your father, sweetie. No means no.”

Abigail pouts.

Hastur is growing anxiously impatient. “Well? Wot you gonna do?”

Aziraphale takes a step forward. “You force us to flee our bookshop, burn down our cottage, _kill me_ , stalk my family for _years_ after I’m gone, try to _kidnap our daughter_ and _kill her_ just to have a war that needn’t be started to _begin with_ …”

He trails off, his voice having been building and building, only to fizzle out at the end. Somehow all that anger has already run its course, or there’s simply too much of it to process. In an act of preservation, perhaps the angel has transformed it alchemy-like into a sadness that runs just as deep.

Crowley puts a hand on his shoulder. “I got an idea angel.”

He sets Abigail down on her feet, kneeling before her.

“Wanna learn something new you can do?”

She nods excitedly, sour mood sweetening.

“Take your hand and hold it above your head like so.” Crowley does exactly as he tells her. Abigail copies him to a tee. “Now...remember when you played frisbee with Dog? I want you to imagine you’re holding a frisbee, and think about something that makes you happy.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Do you think she has one?”

“We’re about to find out. C’mon darling, think real hard.”

Abigail scrunches his facial features together. She’s taking this all rather seriously, and with much more enthusiasm than demons usually have for their own powers. Perhaps mundane things are more whimsical for the youth.

A small ball of light flickers into existence between her fingertips. Suddenly, it’s stretching itself flatter in all directions, until a perfectly sized halo has materialized in her grasp.

Aziraphale and Crowley share a gasp. Apparently the latter hadn’t expected it to work. “Great job, sweetheart,” the demon beams wickedly.

Abigail pulls her halo down to look at it. She jumps, then smiles, rather pleased with herself. “Now what dad?”

Crowley picks her up again, mindful not to let the halo touch his bare skin. Halos aren’t harmful to demons the same way holy water is, but they do leave a nasty mark if smited with one. Then again, a sharp disk glowing with divine light is sure to leave a nasty mark on anybody. “Walk with me angel.”

The family approaches. Hastur would make a mad dash for the exit if not for the closing distance between him and the water gun. He squirms helplessly in his seat, and before he knows it the angels and demon are looming right over him.

Crowley lowers his sunglasses just to give Hastur a particularly terrifying stare. “Don’t move.”

Hastur doesn’t move, even as Crowley lifts Abigail and her halo up over him.

“Go ahead and put it on his head, sweetie.”

It is in that moment Hastur regrets not risking a shot of holy water and fleeing while he could. As soon as the halo is hovering above his head, he can feel its celestial effects taking hold of him. A petrifying warmth courses through him like magma, his body seizing up and convulsing for what feels like an eternity, but ends in less than a second. Though a second is all that is needed for Abigail’s powers to take root.

The three step back, Aziraphale even lowering the water gun. Hastur leaps to his feet, igniting a ball of hellfire in his palm.

“Abby, tell him no,” Crowley orders.

“No!”

The hellfire extinguishes itself. Hastur stares at his hand, trying to will the flame to return. No dice. His breath quickens.

“S-She...she shouldn’t be able to do that! Wot _is_ she?!” he demands, horrified.

“Our daughter,” Aziraphale answers simply. “With all our powers at her disposal. I assume you’re familiar with the hypnotic effects of an angel’s halo, are you not?”

Crowley smirks. “You won’t be taking orders from downstairs anymore. From now on, you listen to this little tiger.”

Abigail blows Hastur a raspberry. His knees grow suddenly wobbly. He falls to the floor, the gravity of his situation too much to withstand.

All demons are aware of the effects halos have on them. While it’s considered a forbidden practice for angels (being unofficially outlawed after the first war between heaven and hell), both sides are well informed of how they work. An angel can force a demon into servitude and essentially turn them to the “good” side.

Until Abigail releases him, Hastur is, for all intensive purposes, a risen demon. And always at her humble command.

Satan, somehow he’s lived through two worst-case scenarios for a demon in one day.

“Guess we’re done here then,” Aziraphale remarks. Then he pulls the trigger.

Hastur cries out, shielding himself futility with his arms. The water hits his coat sleeves, but the burning never comes. “W-Wot?”

Aziraphale hands Abigail the water gun finally as Crowley loses it. The demon nearly bends over, laughing his bloody head off.

“I-I can’t believe-! You fell for it _twice!_ Dumb bastard!”

“Crowley! Language.” Aziraphale straightens his bow tie. “That was for murdering me. For your sake, be grateful I didn’t do anything worse.”

Hastur nods frantically. “D-Duly noted.”

The angel smiles. “Right. So, back upstairs, then.”

 

Adam is still standing watch in the kitchen once they emerge, now joined by Newt. The struggling author seems to have been informed about the situation by how he worriedly cradles his grocery bag in his arms.

Aziraphale pats the young Antichrist on the back. “Thank you Adam, I really appreciate it.”

The teen smiles. “Never seen a halo before,” he admits, gesturing to Hastur behind them. The captive demon is wandering through the ground floor like a baby giraffe walking on its legs for the first time. Mortal life will take some adjusting to, it seems. As will having Abigail tail him around. It seems that their daughter is in love with the fact she has a friend who is forced to play with her.

The moral ambiguity of their actions should be worrying Aziraphale to know end. Aren’t they of a higher standard than their old sides? Isn’t the very reason they chose to end the apocalypse because they were in a better mindset than all other celestial beings? What kind of message are they sending to their daughter subjecting Hastur to this form of punishment?

Only, Aziraphale can’t find it within him to care. Perhaps if so much hadn’t been taken from him already, he would be more frightened of losing his morals too.

“We’re...not really supposed to be using it,” he admits to Adam. “Your parents must be wondering where you are. You should head on home.”

Adam groans, disappointed. “But you just got back! I want to know what happened!”

“And I want to hear what you’ve been up to as well,” Aziraphale assures him, “but we’ll have plenty of time to catch up tomorrow. Once things are a bit more sorted out here.”

Reluctantly, Adam nods. “See you tomorrow then.”

Aziraphale smiles, the boy’s downfallen attitude rather charming to him. “Tell your parents I said hello!” He calls out as Adam goes to leave. “Er, actually...don’t.”

Adam laughs. He whistles for Dog to follow, and the two of them return home.

Newt manages to put the last of his groceries away before finally addressing the elephant in the room. “So...Hastur’s just going to live here now?”

“It appears that way,” Aziraphale sighs.

“Now doesn’t mean forever,” Crowley assures them both. “Just can’t have him running back to headquarters. Once we figure out something better to do, I’ll get Abby to release him.”

“Didn’t Abigail bring him back to life, though?” Newt questions.

The couple eyes him strangely. “Yeah, so?” Crowley asks.

“Well, aren’t you two big advocates for the Ineffable Plan? What if...bringing Hastur back to life is a part of that?”

Aziraphale draws in a sharp breath. He’s wise enough not to open his mouth, as his words will be anything but respectful. It’s not Newt’s fault for having a curious mind, just as it’s not Aziraphale’s fault for having a shoddy temper.

Their silence must give Newt a clear warning to drop the subject, as he ducks his head and retreats to his study. Wearily, Aziraphale takes a seat at the kitchen island. He’s had enough emotional whiplash for one day. If only he were a better sleeper, he’d go straight to bed.

Crowley pulls up a chair beside him, taking a seat. “How do we get more holy water?”

Aziraphale laughs bitterly. “I rob another church, I suppose...unless he’s right.”

“Newt’s a human. He doesn’t get what’s going on.”

“Do _we?_ ” Aziraphale wonders desperately. “Crowley, we still don’t know how much of Raphael’s power is in her. And how much demonic persuasion is she capable of, because I haven’t seen an ounce of it for as long as I’ve been here.”

Crowley looks down at the countertop. “I tried to teach her shapeshifting…”

“And she didn’t pick it up?”

“She just needs practice.”

“Crowley-”

“I’m serious, angel! Look. Hell fire does nothing to her. The night you died? She should’ve perished just the same as you. The two of us were covered in flames. And she’s still with us today, is she not?”

“But isn’t it concerning how she’s showing more...angelical signs than demonic?”

Crowley gazes up at him, saddened. “We were both angels once. Majority wins.”

Surely they can both feel the dynamic shift between them. Aziraphale is now hardened, while Crowley has grown much more malleable. Both of them have lost faith in forces bigger than themselves, and now their faith in themselves is failing as well.

There’s the pitter pattering of bare feet as Abigail runs into the room. “Dad, Hast’r and me are gonna play cars.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother looking at her. Crowley sighs and lays down the law. “I’m not giving them back to you until you apologize to your father. Go find something else for you two to do.”

Abigail doesn’t stomp away as Aziraphale expects her to. Instead she asks, “Why’re you sad?”

Crowley nudges him. Aziraphale looks down, puzzled. Abigail is looking at him expectantly.

Oh. She was referring to him.

“I’m...not having a good day,” he admits kindly. He doesn’t bother forcing a smile for her. Her concern for a stranger must only stretch so far.

Abigail frowns, regretfully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean t’make you feel bad. Y’er just…”

“Weird?” Aziraphale offers.

She nods.

“That’s okay. I don’t mind you seeing me that way. Being weird isn’t such a bad thing to be.”

Abigail rocks back on the balls of her heels. “I don’t really think Hast’r wants to play...do you wanna play?”

Aziraphale’s heart jackhammers in his chest. “M-Me?”

She nods. He almost asks again, just for confirmation.

“Yes. Of course! Oh, here.”

He holds out his hand to her, two chipped Hot Wheels materializing back to reality. Abigail swoops them up, squealing happily.

“C’mon! C’mon! Hurry!” she calls out excitedly, already running off towards the living room.

Aziraphale looks back at Crowley, still in disbelief. His husband is beaming at him proudly.

“Go on, then. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“Right...right!” He slides out of his seat, almost falling over himself. “Coming, Abby!”

In a world of unexplainable phenomena, two toy cars may just be enough to being a father and his daughter together again.


	12. Scatter-Brained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crash landings, reunions, and Pizza Bites. A day in the life of the Pulsifer cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back!!!!!!! For good this time. No more crazy week-long excursions planned for a while. Just me, my laptop, and this fic to finish. Perfectly balanced as all things should be
> 
> This has nothing to do with anything but while on vacation I watched toy story 4 (twice) and rn it’s all I want to talk about so if you wanna sob in the comments with me go right ahead bc I loved it and I loved woody’s arc but if you didn’t I super respect your opinion. I’m high on nostalgia and tears
> 
> Also thank you all so much for 10,000+ hits!!!!! I’m blown away by your kindness. All the comments I came back to over the weekend warmed my heart and I can’t wait to continue this journey with you all <3

Some time goes by. Not a whole lot of it, but some does.

Feelings between Aziraphale and Abigail, having once been lukewarm at best, are showing signs of improvement. Through the power of hot wheels, hide-and-seek, and tea parties, they’ve bonded far faster than the angel could’ve hoped for.

They’re relationship is still a fair bit rocky, however. Abigail always turns to Crowley first, whether it be a simple question or for help finding a toy. He’s learned not to take it (too) personally. A grain of salt goes a long way to calm the nerves, but Aziraphale’s sodium content could certainly kill any mortal.

There are times, though, when Crowley is not around. Kids need to eat (especially Abigail), and Aziraphale is still adjusting to the horrendous grocery list Abigail forces them to abide by for her. Crowley can handle the humiliating trips to the store for Pizza Bites better than Aziraphale can.

It’s a marvelous day outside. Not a cloud to be seen in the crystal blue yonder above Tadfield. Apparently Adam still enjoys flexing his powers to create the perfect weather, and Aziraphale isn’t complaining. It makes gardening much more relaxing, if one considers sloppily trimming hedges “gardening.”

A new pair of clippers would do the trick, and help to spruce up the poor job he’s doing. A small miracle is all it would take, not even a twitch of his pinky. Aziraphale would do it, if only to ease his self-consciousness of how their yard holds up compared to the neighbors.

But six years is more than he was ever willing to wager for this new life of theirs, so rusty and dull the clippers will stay.

Aziraphale wipes the sweat from his brow, torn between trying to fix the quality of the hedges or call it a day, when a shrill _ting_ hits his ears. He turns around as Abigail whips out from behind the cottage on a grass-covered bike. She’s without a helmet or other safety pads, and her trailing wheels are a bit too loose for comfort. Still, she’s smiling like the Dickens, ringing her bell like a maniac, and pedaling as fast as her little legs will let her.

“Where are you going?” he calls out to her.

“‘Round!” she hollers back.

“You don’t have any more holy water! Stick close to the house, please!”

She doesn’t respond, possibly because she’s going to ignore him. Aziraphale watches anxiously as she swerves out of the yard, just barely avoiding the gate. She rounds the corner, makes it a good ten yards away from the cottage, then wipes out spectacularly onto her face.

Aziraphale gasps, sucking in an ungodly amount of air. Impulsively, he sprouts his wings and sails quickly to her aid. He kneels beside her as she stirs.

Abigail rolls over onto her bottom, face and limbs scratched to hell. She squints, dazed, but comes to not a moment later.

“Oh my goodness! Abby? Abby, are you alright?! What hurts darling?”

Abby blinks, looking at her knee. “I scrapped it.”

Nevermind all the other bumps and bruises she’ll sprout tomorrow, it seems. Rather frantic, Aziraphale ignores the rules they’ve set in place and plants a kiss on her bleeding knee.

He expects the minor wound to be miraculously cleaned and closed. It’s quite a shock then when it remains as mildly grotesque as it was before. All that’s changed is the layer of dirt on his lips.

“There. All...better?”

Abigail giggles, none the wiser. “Thanks dad.”

Dad. Oh, that’s new too. Dad. _Dad_. Oh, Aziraphale quite likes that title. His initial shock is gone, replaced with something far more important. Well, at least for the moment.

He’s a hot spot for love that any angel in a thousand-mile radius can feel. Surely he poses more of a danger than performing a miracle right now.

“Let’s...let’s get you up now.” He holds out his hands and lifts Abigail effortlessly to her feet. “We’ll get you all cleaned up and good as new again.”

“And we can get a snack too?”

Aziraphale laughs as he turns the bike upright. He has to lean over a bit to wheel it back to the house, but he’d rather not have Abigail exert herself any more. “Wait until your father gets back with your Pizza Bites. Do you...crash often?”

Abigail nods proudly. “I like t’go fast.”

“Let me guess: your father taught you how to ride?”

“Yep!”

“Do you have your own helmet? Elbow and knee pads?”

“Yeah, but I don’t like t’use ‘em.”

“Well, you really should,” Aziraphale cautions her as they reach the cottage. He leans the bike against the siding, making a mental note to clean it with the hose later (and tighten those training wheels).

A bubble bath and a _Toy Story_ bandaid is all it takes for Abigail to be good as new. Her immediate decision afterwards is to go riding her bike again, to which Aziraphale uses Hastur as an excuse to steer her attention elsewhere.

“I heard Hastur saying he wants to play with you.”

“W’eally?”

“Oh yes! He said something along the lines of playing more of that...Yoshi game of yours.”

Abigail’s eyes light up. “I _knew_ he liked it.” She runs to her bedroom, no doubt to retrieve her gaming console. Aziraphale hopes she doesn’t drop it; limited miracles means a limited money supply.

He does go and clean her bike once she’s distracted. Years upon years of grime must come off in the process, and after the ricing it takes a fair amount of elbow grease to clean out the gears.

The gravel walkway crunches under someone’s feet just as he’s finishing. 

“You didn’t tell me about the healing thing.”

“I didn’t?”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, only slightly peeved. “What does _that_ mean? Upon everything else we still have to decipher, she shouldn’t be immune to-! Oh.”

Standing beside Crowley, arms just as full as groceries as him, is Anathema. She’s aged a noticeable amount since he last saw her (which makes sense), her features more defined and mature. She’s also had a haircut, her look awfully similar to Crowley’s now.

“Anathema! You didn’t tell us you were visiting!”

Anathema drops her groceries. Her face somehow pales and grows beet red at the same time. “You... _you’re-?_ ”

“Alive, yes. Er...sorry for not telling you sooner.”

Her fists are clenched, as is her jaw, but the hug she pulls Aziraphale into is anything but tense.

“This is the kind of thing you tell someone about,” she mutters into his ear, voice softer than her appearance.

Aziraphale smiles. “Yes, and also why I can’t seem to _heal_ my own _child_.”

He shoots Crowley a look. The demon cowers under his stare. A jar of applesauce falls out of one of his bags.

“How about we talk more inside? I think my husband has some frozens he needs to put away.”

 

Anathema has been staring off into space for some time now, the tea Aziraphale has offered her now ice cold.

“That’s...a lot.”

“Yes.”

“I mean... _wow._ ”

“Yeah.” Crowley stretches his arms above his head, than slyly slides one behind Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale tries to shrug him off, but Crowley is adamant. Apparently, he can’t handle the angel being mad at him.

Aziraphale would argue how anyone could forget to tell him such an important about their daughter, and that he was trained for hundreds of years in the art of swordsmanship, and really isn’t feeling the gesture right now.

Newt finishes off the last of his own tea awkwardly. He clears his throat, setting down his mug. “I like your new haircut.”

Anathema looks at him, startled, then offers a small smile. “Thanks. I like the...mustache.”

No she doesn’t. No one likes the mustache, but Newt has grown so fond of it these past weeks no one has had the heart to tell him so. His cheeky smile forces them back into silence. “Thank you.”

There is...something between them that Aziraphale can sense. If he dare say it, it’s some form of longing, of loneliness, perhaps with a smidge of apprehension.

It’s incredibly familiar, ineffably so. Aziraphale can remember those centuries of pining, that in reality had been millenniums. Where feelings were thought to be mutual, and where but in a different way.

Perhaps he should say something. Help to start the conversation that took so long for him to have with Crowley.

Or he could let it happen naturally, let their feelings blossom like the most beautiful flower patches in the Garden of Eden (next to his and Crowley, of course).

For now, he’ll let things play out as they are.

“You haven’t been in any danger, have you?” Aziraphale asks. “No angels or demons lurking in American where they shouldn’t be?”

“They should lurk there more often, really,” Crowley mutters. “Or less, depending on how you see it.”

Anathema shakes her head. “Not a sign. No funky auras or anything like that. Seems so far they don’t want a thing to do with me, or my family thankfully.”

Aziraphale hums, deep in thought. “Must not want to interfere too much with the mortals.”

“For now.” Crowley stands, collecting the mugs of their human compatriotes. “It’s a celestial cold war. Who knows what ends they’ll go to?”

A moment passes, each one of them whipping up a terrible answer to that question in their heads. Newt is the one that steers them to a lighter topic. “So, uh...h-how long are you visiting for?”

Anathema smiles at him again, a little more at ease. “At least until Abby’s birthday. I’ve...I’ve missed it here. Quiet Tadfield. The occasional demon run-in. Better than Californian wildfires.”

Crowley gestures grandly around the living room, sloshing some of the leftover tea from Anathema’s mug. “You’re welcome to stay here. Remember what I said.”

She laughs, warm and grateful. “I can’t just show up unannounced and-”

“I’m not listening to that bull!” Crowley calls over his shoulder as he saulters off to the kitchen. “You’ll have to bunk with Abby. Or Newt. Whoever’s willing.”

Both humans blush.

“Oh, I can just sleep on the couch-”

“You can take the bed-”

“Really, I don’t want to-”

A wild squeal tears through the house. A child’s voice overpowers the agitated demon who is arguing with her. Aziraphale takes a wild guess as to who is enjoying Abigail’s game more.

Anathema’s eyes light up. Aziraphale grins, knowingly.

“Abby! Come here please!”

A very proud six year old comes darting into the room, hair tangled and swaying every which direction. “Yeah? What d-”

She spies Anathema sitting on the couch and loses her marbles.

“AUNTIE THEM!”

Abigail leaps into Anathema’s arms. The witch swoops her up effortlessly and spins her around in the air, laughing all the way. “You’re so _big!_ I told you not to get older while I was gone!”

“D’ja miss me?”

“Of course I missed you!”

“D’ja bring me back a pres’nt?”

Anathema chuckles nervously. “Yeah..! It’sm...in my suitcase. I’ll get it for you later.”

Abigail wiggles herself out of Anathema’s arms, landing back on the floor. “Come play with me ‘n Hast’r! We’re playin’ Mario!”

“Oh, I’d love to sweetie. I’d also love to speak to your new friend Hastur to for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

Anathema shoots Aziraphale a wink as Abigail leads her to the demon she’s about to scare the hell out of. If only she could do such a thing. It would make their whole situation so much easier.

With that, the Pulsifer cottage grows a bit more homier. And slightly more competent.

 

It’s late that night. Very late. All the humans under their roof have since gone to sleep, with the inclusion of Abigail. Hastur is down in the basement brooding like he always does. Crowley and Aziraphale are the only ones wide awake.

“It must work both ways,” Aziraphale argues, being down to pick up a stuffed sheep. He tosses it into Abigail’s plastic play bin and reaches for the next discarded toy. “ _I’m_ here, after all.”

“Angel, it doesn’t make much sense to me either, but that’s just how it is.” Crowley kicks a soccer ball the bin’s way, but his aim is off. The ball bounces against the wall and rolls into the dustiest corner of the play room. He sighs vexingly.

“How do you know that? How often have you tried?”

“It’s been six years. Believe me, I’ve tried _plenty_.”

It’s late, and they’ve been feuding pettily for hours now, but this is the first time Crowley has honestly snapped at him. So Aziraphale snaps right back.

“Well forgive me for not knowing, Crowley. I’ve only been dead for half a dozen years! I’m just trying to catch up!”

The words sting both of them. Suddenly, the battles of the day seem so pointless now. Crowley shakes with a heavy breath. Aziraphale kneads the rag doll in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” the demon apologizes quietly, earnestly. “It completely slipped my mind. Ever since you got back...my mind hasn’t...I can’t...it’s hard to think straight. I’ve got so much more to lose now. If I lose you again, for a third time-”

He chokes. Aziraphale deflates, soul heavy. “Crowley.”

“Point _is_ ,” Crowley continues, “I’ve been frantic. Distracted. Anxious. I skipped over that detail because I forgot. Honest. And now that we’ve got the literal duke of hell living with us, I’m even more scatter-brained. Hell’s not gonna let us keep him forever. There’s gonna be consequences.”

Aziraphale nods. He looks down at Abigail’s rag doll, staring deep into its black buttoned eyes. “You’ve been on edge for a long time now. Surely before I returned.” He looks back to Crowley. “You must be so tired.”

Crowley _crumples_ . Shoulders slumping, face drooping, every fiber of his being shouting out in a desperate, silent, _Yes._

Aziraphale sets the rag doll in the bin gently. He walks up to Crowley, footsteps slow and careful. “Must’ve been scary...the first time you tried to heal Abby and realized it didn’t work.”

Crowley gives the smallest, most pitiful nod. “She got really sick, one winter...jus’ the flu, the doc said. But I got scared. We were all scared. When it didn’t work...I thought that was it.”

“But it wasn’t,” Aziraphale reminds him. He reaches for one of Crowley’s hands, squeezing it tightly. “She got better. She’s upstairs right now, sleeping peacefully.”

A faint smirk tugs at Crowley’s tips. “No, she’s not...she’s playing that video game of hers. When I walk in to check on her, she’ll hide it under her pillow.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “That’s not a good habit for her.”

Crowley shrugs. “She’s a kid. We were never kids. Gotta let her have the fun we never did.”

Naturally, they find themselves in each other’s arms. They sway to the silent song of the night, Crowley’s head atop of Aziraphale’s. Tonight, they mourn all the dances they lost along with the years, the wisps of a piano echoing at the Ritz floating in their ears.

 

Unknowingly, this same night, a much more sinister pair dances under the moonlight. They dance, as in they maneuver around, away, and towards the other’s ideas of how to go about this celestial cold war and try to plant the seeds of their own influence in the grand scheme along the way.

Ultimately, a rocky compromise is made, the foundation laid entirely on a date, a common goal, and the flimsiest amount of respect.

“Think about it: they’ll be celebrating. They’ll be defenseless. You go for your guy, and we’ll try to nab the kid. And it’ll just so happen we show up at the same time for our rescue missions, and tensions will just so happen to boil over.”

“And if the Antichrist izzz there, what are either of us to do about that?”

“The kid rejected his father. His powers are weaker because of it. We’ll take him out first if we need to, but it’s not like he’s _that_ big of a deal anymore.”

“We’vvve only got a few weeks to prepare. Will your fosssez be ready?”

“Oh believe me, they’ve been ready for a while now.”

“Good. Keep playing it cool until then. Don’t need your blabber mouth to bring thisss whole operation crashing down.”

Gabriel forces a smile, teeth grit and sparkling. “See you at the birthday party.”


	13. Doomsday Reprise pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says in the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...you probably know what’s coming. And bc this is part one more angst is on the way!
> 
> Thank you Libby for helping me map out the ending of act 2 and for dunking on captain America with me <3

Almost overnight it seems, autumn arrives.

With the cold, crisp air and crimson-colored world also comes one of the most anticipated days of the year. Anticipated for traditional reasons, as well as reasons that have yet to come to light. Though you readers already know the reasons I am speaking of.

On October 21st, Abigail turns seven years old.

The day begins like any other despite this. She wakes up, giddy with excitement but equally groggy and disoriented. For breakfast, she wolfs down a bowl of  _ Lucky Charms _ and chats idly with her demonic father as to all she wants to do within the span of daylight.

“I wanna go bike ridin’ w’Adam!”

“You do? Well, Adam won’t be around till your party, so you’re gonna have to settle for riding with someone else.”

“Hmmm...Hast’r then?”

“As long as you crash into him once or twice.”

Abigail giggles. “Do I have t’wear my helmet?”

“‘Fraid so, sweetheart. Your dad won’t let me near your bike unless you’re all suited up.”

“That’s fine, I guess...Do y’think maybe later we can…”

Crowley arches an eyebrow, leaning over the kitchen table. “Yes, dear?”

“Maybe...go flyin’?”

Most families like to indulge themselves in a particular activity, whether that be a cruise across the Atlantic ocean or ordering take-out for dinner. Something to break away from the norm of their mundane lives and create that spark of excitement to get them through the week.

Flying is that very thing for Abigail, and Crowley by extension (and by further extension, Aziraphale, if we want to continue the chain). It’s extremely indulgent (even by angelic standards) and terribly, terribly dangerous. Nothing draws more attention to those mortal and immortal than a child 600 feet in the air with wings attached to them.

Crowley smiles, though his mirth falls flat. Abigail is oblivious to this, as well as his hesitation. “Let me talk to your father first.”

“S’maybe?”

There’s a slight pause. “Maybe.”

For Abigail, maybe has almost always meant yes. She has no reason to believe it will mean anything otherwise. “T’anks dad!”

With the grace of a seven year old, she leans over and kisses his cheek. Then she’s off and running towards the garage.

 

The weather is fair that day. Partly cloudy, but slivers of the sky can be seen. There’s enough of the sun beating down on the earth that Abigail only needs a light jacket. Her sleeves bunch up around her elbow pads, which is annoying, but whatever pleases her new dad. Newer dad. Not quite new anymore, is he?

The wind hustles them along the bike path, Hastur taking the lead with Anathema at the rear. Abigail is in the middle of their little sandwich, occasionally running her front tire into Hastur’s heel when he slows down.

“OI! QUIT IT!” he hisses.

Abigail snickers. So does Anathema. “Sorry Hast’r.”

“How much farther do you want to go, Abby?” her auntie asks.

“Jus’ a little more. I wanna show y’da place, Has’r. Hurry up!”

Not many meters farther, the three come across a familiar chunk of the countryside. It’s the place the Antichrist’s desire for conquest defused, and has been a favorite play spot for Abigail all her young life.

Hogback Woods hasn’t changed much over the years. Roots have grown thicker, and new footprints have been laid, but otherwise it has remained a utopia for all kids in Tadfield. The Them, however, still have the most claim to it, as their fort still stands tall and mighty above all others. Even with most of them having already left to further their academic careers, no one has dared try to reclaim their territory.

Abigail brings her bike to a stop, the others standing beside her. “Dis is where we’ll fly lat’r. We always d’it here.”

Hastur looks down at her, interested. “Always?”

“Ymm-hmm. Dad and I fly all ‘round from here-” She points somewhere off to her left, “-to there.” She points somewhere off to her right. “S’metimes if the coast’s clear, we go even high’r!”

“Is that so?”

“It is. I jus’ told you.”

“Right…”

He’s drifting off, not that Abigail minds much. Hastur is rarely interested in anything she says to him, but he’s nice company when no one else is around.

Anathema, however, does seem to mind. She seems to mind even more when Hastur suddenly twitches, head swiveling around to face something neither of the girls can see.

“What is it?”

Hastur jumps. He tries (and fails) to appear as aloof as he was before. “Nothin.’”

“Wasn’t nothing. You’re acting weird. What’s going on,  _ demon? _ ”

Hastur snarls, her attitude grading on him. “Used to be a lot of demonic activity here,  _ human _ . Enough of a trace left for me to sense it. That’s that happens when the Antichrist loiters in one area for too long.”

Anathema stares at him, long and hard. Abigail believes full-heartedly she’ll press the question further, but instead moves past it. “We better turn back now, Abby. Don’t want to be late to your own party.”

The party! How could Abigail forget? Actually, it’s very easy to see how she would forget. Anytime the possibility of flying presents itself, she hyperfixates on it until she’s dozens of feet in the air.

“I’ll race y’back!” she challenges, then proceeding to give herself a head start. Anathema comes petaling after her, yelling about how much of a cheater she is. Though it’s all in good fun, and Anathema will let her win anyway.

Both of them have their backs turned to Hastur, who takes one last look around Hogback Woods, then trudges along the bike path home.

 

In Aziraphale’s defense, he tried his damned best.

But Crowley can’t honestly look at the cake his angel has made and deem it safe for consumption.

“I still can’t believe you can’t cook.”

Aziraphale peels his oven mitts off shamefully. “I always follow the recipe, I swear!”

“Not saying you didn’t.” Bare-handed, Crowley grabs the scalding pan and politely chucks the mess into the trash can. “With a little help, you’ll get it this next time. Get the eggs out for me?”

He makes quick work of scrubbing the pan clean as Aziraphale gathers the needed ingredients. Soon the island is prepped for another go round at Abigail’s birthday cake. Crowley puts Aziraphale on mixing duty. He takes responsibility of any and all measurements.

The batter whips itself up rather quick, and before either of them know it back the pan goes back into the oven. The icing comes next, since Aziraphale had insisted it will taste so much better homemade. He’s not wrong, of course, but Crowley is just, well, lazy.

There’s no force stronger than an angel’s persistence, however. Aziraphale has them both back to work the moment the oven door closes. It’s going to take a great deal of icing to cover the cake, and they only have a third of a gallon of milk left to do it.

“We could add water,” Aziraphale assures him.

“No, it’ll be too soupy! She won’t like it.”

“Well, I’ll keep whipping. But we can’t control what we don’t have.”

“Shouldn’t have let her eat cereal this morning,” Crowley mutters.

“It’s her birthday! She can do whatever she wants...within reason.”

Crowley nudges Aziraphale out of the way and takes the whisk from him. The angel’s pace is just a bit too slow for his liking. “Yeah, speaking of which...she wants to go flying.”

Aziraphale frowns, his mind attacking that statement from every angle. “I assume she’s...done so before.”

“As a treat,” Crowley admits. “I take her to Hogback Woods sometimes. It’s hidden. Mostly secluded. Just gotta go when there aren’t any neighborhood brats around.”

“Is it safe?”

Crowley’s hand slows, until the whisk starts drowning under the clumpy icing. “Not now it isn’t. Gonna have to tell her no, or keep her distracted until she forgets. But she never forgets about flying.”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “I know something that may tide her over.”

“And that is-?”

As he’s speaking, Aziraphale wiggles his fingers. Crowley is slow on the draw, mind rusty. He is unable to prevent Aziraphale from sliding a hand behind his ear and pulling a coin back out in front of him.

Crowley stares at the coin. It catches the light from the kitchen, glistening with a dull shine. He finds a lump forming in his throat, despite how demeaning he finds his husband’s magic tricks.

When he fails to offer up an insult, that’s when Aziraphale realizes something is wrong. “Crowley? Dear?”

“S’was your hand,” Crowley manages weakly.

Aziraphale smiles softly. “No, it was in your ear.”

“Nowhere near my ear,” Crowley mumbles.

He picks the whisk back up, the voice in his head telling him to push past what just happened. He starts back up again, whisking his thoughts away, only for Aziraphale to stop him with a hand atop his.

“I think that’s as smooth as you’re going to get it.”

Crowley makes a moment-needs a moment-before responding. “It could be a lot better. Buncha...lumps and stuff.”

Aziraphale takes the whisk from his hand and sets it aside. “It’s the best we can do with what we have...and it’ll taste just as good, no matter the consistency.”

“But surely it’s not good enough,” Crowley insists. “Considering your standards. Surely you wanted-” A breath. He needs a breath. He forces one down. “You  _ want _ it to be better.”

Aziraphale smiles. His smiles have always been soft, not an edge to be seen. Crowley rues the day there ever is one. “My love, what I want is for you to be okay.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t want that. That’s a terrible want. Want more. Want better.”

Aziraphale shakes his head too. “All of what I want can’t be given to me. But you were moved to tears by a coin, and I think I can at least help with that.”

“I was not about to cry over a coin. You’re ridicu-”

Aziraphale cups his cheek with a warm hand, silencing him. “Crowley...I’m here. We’re all here. It’s Abby’s birthday. We’re still living. Not the way we ever intended, but it’s still our life to live. You’re allowed to be miserable about it. To be angry. To be sad. Lord knows I am.”

“ _ Angel _ .”

“Oh, I don’t think the Almighty cares what I say anymore. I’m hardly an angel at all. The only difference is I never fell. Literally, anyway.” He grins, and not an ounce of worry is to be seen. “We’re going to be alright, dear. But don’t be afraid to break.”

Crowley did break. Once in a bar. Twice in the front yard. He resents the anguish, loathes its presence, yet can never seen to escape it. Even with Aziraphale back, he mourns. What makes it worse is not knowing exactly what he’s mourning. Time, sure. But there must be more, to make the ache in his chest so terrible.

He peels Aziraphale’s hand away from his face. His smile is unconvincing, but why bother to fool so clever an angel?

“Cake’s almost done. Help me set the table?”

Aziraphale’s natural glow dims, but still he nods. “I’ll...get the plates.”

 

It’s a party, in a sense they call it one. In reality, it’s a family dinner, just with cake at the end.

Abigail sits at the end of the table in her seat of honor. It’s a regular dining chair, but there’s a balloon tied to the back. Abigail likes balloons. She especially enjoys releasing them into the sky, then chasing them down (or up, depending on how you look at it). Another reason she fully believes they’re going flying today.

Flanking her right, backs to the kitchen cabinets, are Crowley, Adam, and Newt. This order will be important, but there’s no shame in forgetting. You’ll know when it will be of importance, and will remember fairly quickly.

To her left, backs to the front door, stairway, and backroom are Aziraphale, Anathema, and Hastur. This order is also significant, but less so. Just know Aziraphale is sitting closest to the cake, which is lopsided but edible. An overall improvement.

Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. Hastur is the only exception, carving demonic signals into the table wood with his fingernails. He is incredibly bored, and incredibly agitated. There are so many better things for him to be doing, such as brooding, pacing, and brooding once more. He doesn’t want to be here, but Abigail, to his horror, considers him a friend, and thus he is forced to participate.

For dinner, they dine on mac and cheese. Store-bought, of course, and as artificially yellow as it can be. For perhaps the first time in his life, Aziraphale has to force himself to eat his meal. He pokes at the small noodles with his fork, frowning.

Crowley shoves a whole fork load into his mouth and grins. Bits of noodle are stuck in his teeth. “‘ll get used t’ the taste, ang’l.”

Aziraphale hums, disgusted. “If you say so...If  _ you’ll _ eat it, I can too.”

“Mmmhmm.” Another large bite goes into Crowley’s mouth. “Y’get used to eatin’ stuff like this. Ab doesn’t like it when I don’t eat. Trust me, it’s better than spaghettios.”

“What are spaghettios?”

Crowley just laughs at him, downing the rest of his bowl. Cheese coats the area of his beard around his lips, but Aziraphale has no desire to kiss it away.

Abigail eyes his bowl, eyes beedy with greed. “Can I...finish yours?”

Aziraphale passes his bowl to her. She devours it like a rabid animal. By the time she’s done, her cheeks are covered in sauce. “T’anks!”

A bubble of laughter works its way through Aziraphale, bursting as it reaches his mouth. He finds he can’t stop laughing, nor that he wants to. Soon he’s got Crowley joining in, Adam and their human companions too.

It can really come that easily. Joy. Just give a child some macaroni. Make her smile. Be happy, for the sake of being happy. Find enjoyment in any meal, even if the food isn’t that good. But don’t tell Abigail that; she’s quite fond of store-bought abominations.

Aziraphale finds Crowley’s eyes, laughter still tugging at their cheeks. This may be what his husband needed all along. A chance to smile. A chance to carve out some happiness from the doom and gloom. God knows he’s had plenty of it these past six years. Maybe year seven can make up for all that sorrow.

As far as Aziraphale can remember, he’s never seen Crowley so damn happy before.

That’s when Gabriel shows up.

His position is also important. If you remember the doll house-like scenario, Gabriel materializes behind Aziraphale, Anathema, and Hastur, now placing his own back to the front door, stairway, and backroom. He is facing Newt, Adam, and Crowley, who’s smile has died and fled to hell. Hell, undoubtedly, seems like a much safer place to be right now.

Gabriel, of course, is smiling. Not grinning. Just a calm, formal smile. Though his eyes betray how pleased he is.

“What a sight.”

Aziraphale is paler than the sands of heaven. He turns slowly in his chair to face Gabriel. Meanwhile, Crowley sides a hand under the table to grab Abigail’s.

“Two angels, two demons, two  _ humans _ , and the Antichrist sitting down to have dinner together.” He pushes a laugh out through his nose. “Certainly not something you see everyday.”

No one moves. Gabriel waits expectantly, perhaps for someone to ask what he’s doing here. A beat passes before he realizes no one is going to. His smile dips slightly.

“Well, you all have pulled  _ quite _ the capper on heaven. Gotta say, not a huge fan of being played. But I have to give credit where credit’s due. You all have evaded our grasp remarkably well.  _ Well _ , except for you Aziraphale. Though I guess you may have evaded us  _ too _ well. And not really us, but hell-oh, whatever.”

He snaps his fingers. It’s a signal, not a summoning. Though it really doesn’t matter. A small army of angels materializes around the table, weapons unsheathed, broad and defensive. Though there is no more than ten of them, they have the family completely surrounded on all sides.

Crowley side-eyes the sword tip at Adam’s throat. Abigail’s grip on his tightens.

Gabriel claps his hands together. “So! There’s really no need for this to get messy. Just hand over the angel child, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Crowley’s voice is just an octave short of a growl, but just as sharp. “Why do you want her?”

“She’s obviously one of ours,” Gabriel answers, as if everyone knew this beforehand. “Somehow you stole her from heaven-probably Aziraphale’s doing-”

“Bullsss _ shit _ ,” Crowley hisses. “You lying bastard. You said-!”

The sword at Adam’s throat pricks the boy’s skin. A thin trail of blood catches the blade. Crowley shuts up.

Gabriel’s smile grows. “Just hand over the kid. All will be forgiven. We’re angels, after all.”

And that’s when the demons show up.

The doll house is getting quite full, but there are only a few more key players to remember. Prince Beezlebub materializes directly opposite Gabriel on the other side of the table. They’re standing behind Adam, next to the angel ready to filet Adam’s head off. Dagon appears to Gabriel’s left, and a demon army of similar size and deadly intent files in around the table.

“Crowley! Y-” Beezlebub starts, stops, or more accurately stalls. You or I could notice this if we were there, and lacking a sword at our backside. Everyone else, however, is far too overwhelmed to catch on.

Gabriel feigns shock. “Prince Beelzebub.”

Beezlebub follows suit. “Archangel Gabriel.”

Every angel and demon in the room tenses. Some because they were instructed to, others simply because the situation demands it.

“Well,” Gabriel stammers, “Seems we both have a knack for poor timing.”

“Or good timing,” Beezlebub offers.

There are a lot of players here, meaning there’s going to be a lot of perspectives we need to jump to in order to fully understand what happens next. Hang on tight, dear reader. Everything is about to change.

The angel next to Adam, as instructed to prior, moves their sword into a position that is common with those who normally behead a person with that kind of weapon. These were their instructions prior to the standup, and they are executing them (literally) this very moment.

What this angel never anticipated is the arrangement of those at the dining table. Newt won’t be able to stop the angel from killing Adam (he’s Newt Pulsifer, after all).

But Crowley can. And he does.

With the reflexes of a snake, he grabs the sword by its blade, bares down his grip, and yanks it out of the angel’s own. It goes sailing over the table, scattering to the floor just to Aziraphale’s right. The tip of the blade just scratches the angel’s shoe.

A quick note of vital importance: celestial steel, as all angelic and demonic weapons are made from, has the same harmful effects as holy water and hell fire. One touch of a celestial blade will not kill an angel or a demon instantly, but any mortal wound will do much more than simply discoporiate them. They are a vampire’s stake, a werewolf’s silver bullet, so on and so forth.

Crowley’s hand will heal. It stings like the Devil, but the wound is utterly harmless.

The wound caused by Beezlebub’s sword through his lower torso will not heal.

Abigail watches as Crowley’s hand is ripped out of hers, flying to his stomach. She’s still watching as her father cries out in utter agony, her other father crying out in horror, and as Crowley drops to the floor.

For lack of a better phrase, all hell breaks loose.

Everyone at the table dives for cover as the angels and demons go tearing at each other. Abigail finds herself yanked from her chair and hidden under the table by Aziraphale, who takes the opportunity to arm himself.

His husband’s blood trickles down to the sword hilt, covering his fingers. When an angel or a demon is normally wounded their blood appears red, to keep mortal observers unaware of their true nature. Celestial weapons, however, draw out their true, metallic-colored blood. For demons, it’s the same liquid nickel seeping under Aziraphale’s fingernails.

With surprising strength, Aziraphale shoves Abigail Anathema’s way. The witch gathers the child into her arms, holding her close.

“GET HER OUT OF HERE! ALL OF YOU  _ GO! _ ”

He leaps out from under the table, and with hundreds of years of sword practice at his disposal, unleashes himself upon the battling armies.

Anathema ushers Newt to crawl with her past a sea of tussling legs, Hastur joining them.

There’s a small clearing between the bodies, a narrow path to the backroom presenting itself. Anathema can see evening light coming through the back door window. She waits for a better opening, then darts out as soon as the coast is clear enough.

The four of them are able to make it out of the house without injury.

However, not without being seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never seen game of thrones and I never plan to but I assume this is what the red wedding was like right


	14. Doomsday Reprise pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, what it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this almost in one sitting, like I was put in a trance by Crowley like Madam Loquacious. Hopefully it doesn’t show XD I was just super excited for what happens/what’s to come
> 
> This chapter marks the end of act two. They’ll be four acts, with the last one serving as the falling action and won’t be any longer than 2-3 chapters probably. Who knows how long act three will be!
> 
> Thank you all for the incredible support and for 11,000+ hits!!! I feel so bad for all the terrible cliffhangers but I really appreciate y’alls kindness <3

The Great Plan states that there will be a world that will last for six thousand years then end in fire and flame. For the fire and flame to begin, there needs to be a Great War, also.

The Great War between heaven and hell begins on October 21st, around 6:57 PM, in the small village of Tadfield.

 

If angels smelled of vanilla and demons smelled of pepper, Hastur would be coughing up a storm right now. The impossible aurona, sweet and sinister, heightens all his senses to a level they are unreliable. He is a power plant of demonic energy about to implode.

Somehow he’s made his way to the front of their runaway posse. It would be effortless to teleport himself somewhere safer, given all the power coursing through him. But the very thought of expelling the gut-churning, blood-boiling fury in his veins terrifies him. He could discorporate on the spot.

This is what happens when feuds break out between opposing sides, and build for thousands upon thousands of years. Mass hysteria and unbridled rage.

Above them, angels clad in armor descend from the heavens. In the pastures surrounding them, demons spring from the earth, chainmail smoldering.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?!” Newt shouts, pointlessly.

“DON’T STOP. KEEP GOING!” Anathema yells at him. He must have slowed to gawk. It’s not every day you get to witness the true war to end all wars.

They’ve been running for a minute or so now, Pulsifer cottage but an ant hill upon a hill. Humans can run incredibly fast when startled, or maybe some celestial energy has seeped into them as well.

“WHERE DO WE GO?” Newt asks. Finally, a good question. The perfect prompt.

“HOGBACK WOODS!” Hastur shouts back, not caring if they object. That’s where he’s been leading them these past thirty seconds or so. But in case they are in the mood for objections, “IT’LL BE SECLUDED ENOUGH TO HIDE! NONE OF MY LOT WOULD DARE STAY AWAY FROM THE FRAY!”

And so they run to Hogback Woods, every step bringing them closer to their inevitable doom.

 

It’s a slaughter, but at least it is done quickly. No one suffers. Each death is swift and as painless as possible. Such is the true wrath of a principality.

And while Aziraphale, mind distorted with a deep, resentful anger believes it to be more of a mercy than any of them deserves, he still throws his weapon aside once the deed is done. It’s quite the leap, going from not killing anybody to a room of archangels and head demons. He doesn’t relish in what he’s done; he only wishes fate had been kinder to them all.

But he hoards most of that wish for himself. And Crowley. And Adam.

Both are still in the room with him. Crowley is still moving, wincing in unimaginable pain. Adam is far more still. Aziraphale drags the boy out from under the table and inspects him over.

Dead. Killed sometime in the fight. Lost to the mania. Just a boy.

A boy whose soul is woven with pure satanic energy, and thus susceptible to the same effects of celestial weapons.

With a trembling hand, he shuts Adam’s eyes, folding the boy’s hands over his chest. His parents will die sometime in the near future. At least their worry won’t last long.

Next comes Crowley.

His husband cries with every little movement, writhing in a puddle of nickel. Aziraphale can’t bear to see him suffer like this. It’s enough to destroy him without the need of a weapon. He scoops Crowley into his arms and stands on wobbly knees.

“ _Ack!_ Ad-Adam-?”

“Gone, dear.” Aziraphale adjusts his hold, grimacing as Crowley gives a strangled shriek. “We have to find Abby. Stay with me, now. Stay with me _please_.”

“Where’d she-? _Hy-!_ Where-?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find her. She’ll be fine. Stay with me. Stay with me, Crowley.”

 

Hogback Woods is empty, save for the screaming of a million ethereal souls.

Hastur clamps his hands over his ears, desperate for a moment to think. A moment to plan. He’s got them here. The vague idea of what he wants to do now escapes him. It has to do with betrayel and murder, of course. He is, after all, an old school demon.

Anathema puts Abigail down underneath the sturdiest tree in the forest. It’s hundreds of years old, planted in a far simpler time. The little girl is wide-eyed, like an owl observing a late-night tornado. Not able to fly or look away.

“We have to be quiet Abby,” Anathema whispers in as sweet a tone she can. “We’ll be safe here.”

Abigail shivers. “Dad...and dad…”

“They’ll meet us here. It’ll be okay, sweetie. Right Newt?”

Newt jumps, arms tightening around himself. “Ana..this is...is this real? The real end?”

Anathema doesn’t answer him. She runs a hand down Abigail's cheeks, smiling futility. “We’re gonna be okay, Abby. Don’t worry.”

Lying. At a time like this? Hastur can’t for the life of him understand what would compel her to do such a thing. No sense in comforting those who can’t be saved, or comforting at all by his standards.

His head is spinning. There’s a war going on and he’s not a part of it. There’s a halo around his head keeping him from the glory of combat. A child keeping him from the glory of combat. And the voices are only growing louder and louder.

He can’t make out what they’re saying. Deadly temptations, urges to do battle, to start the fire that will declare the winner of this ineffable rivalry.

Satan, he just wants some silence. He wants to be freed of this heaven on earth. To be rid of this pent-up energy that doesn’t belong to him. An ounce of his energy is spared to try and decipher the words. To take a much needed breath.

_Dad._

It’s just one word. This whole time, that’s all it’s been.

_Dad. Dad. Dads._

Hastur brings his hands down and looks up.

It’s not until now he notices the halo glowing atop his head. Or that Dagon has followed them.

Dagon, Lord of the Flies (a title that would more properly fit Beezlebub if they did not already hold the title Prince of hell (and weren’t recently killed by a certain principality)) stands before them. Imposing, armed, and hands flaming.

“So...this is why you’ve been gone so long,” they snarl.

Hastur takes another glance at the halo. He gulps. “I can explain-”

“There’s no need to, actually.” Dagon extinguishes one hand, though it’s hardly a relief to anyone. “Everyone knows how it works, the servitude and whatnot. Just didn’t think you’d be a big enough fool to fall for it.”

Hastur gnashes his teeth. “Well, it took you lot long enough to come rescue me!”

“You think this is a _rescue?_ ” Dagon laughs, the way a supervillain would. It’s corny, but no one would dare mock them. “You’re hardly anyone worth starting a war over.”

Something in Hastur’s chest stings. “But...I’m a-?”

“Duke. Yeah. No one cares. Times are coming to an end. No need for fancy titles anymore. Look, the plan was to kill the kid all along. At this rate, I don’t think the Dark Council cares if the process is sped up or not. So if you want an apology, I’ll let you do the deed and free yourself. How ‘bout that?”

A chord is struck, mainly for the human bystanders. Anathema rises to her feet, fists curled at her sides. Newt stands beside her, less intimidating but ready to follow her lead. “You’re not going to do a damn thing to her _you-!_ ”

Dagon snaps their fingers. The two crumple to the ground, bags of bricks falling from a pallet load. Dead.

Abigail stares at them, mouth agape with a silent scream. The halo above Hastur’s head sparks.

“Are you gonna get on with it or what?” Dagon asks. Their tone expresses their annoyance in full. For them, this is a chore they have to finish before they get to go off and play.

Hastur watches Abigail. She’s still frozen, as if she were another lifeless body. The only indication she’s alive are the tears streaming down her cheeks.

It will be easy. Clearly she’s not going to retaliate. The shock has taken her. One good blast of fire could do it. Or a snap of his own fingers. Whatever he wills. Freedom is all he’s wanted. There’s no reason for him to hesitate now. Literally none.

The voices kick back up again. More panicked than before. Abigail hiccups, gasping on a shrill sob.

No. No reason at all. Hastur raises a hand. His middle fingers presses against his thumb pad.

Abigail looks at him. Beady blue eyes meet soulless ones.

“I-I...I can’t save dad. I can save ‘em, but…”

Hastur hates what he doesn’t understand. For instance, how this whole time he thought Abigail was upset about her aunt and uncle being killed before her very eyes, and she’s still hung up on Crowley. But it is easy to understand, once he really thinks about it. Out of all the things Abigail can do saving Crowley isn’t one of them. His time with her has taught him what kids can’t do deeply upsets them.

It resonates with him in that moment how much he does understand Abigail. The two of them are just greedy bastards, wanting what the universe won’t give them. And it’s not their fault. Not his. Not hers. It’s just their nature. A demon and a child, doing all they can in a world that seems against them.

It would be easy to kill Abigail, but Hastur doesn’t think he’s going to now.

Instead, he snaps his fingers and lights Dagon’s garbs on fire.

Smoke crawls out from underneath their armor. Dagon screams, hasily patting down the flames and readying for a fight. Hastur does the same, but not by arming himself.

“You need to run!” he yells to Abigail, right as Dagon impales him.

His death is slow to come, so Hastur figures it’s only fitting he try to get a few hits in. It’s hard to tell where the lighting bolts he summons hit, but by how much shrieking Dagon is doing he has to believe his aim is decent.

All he has to do is keep them occupied. Keep Dagon in his arms. Give Abigail time to run away, even though it’s pointless.

It’s not so bad, Hastur thinks, Things not having a point. Having a punchline without a joke. Maybe that’s what’s so appealing about having an imagination. After all, believing Abigail will live is much easier on his conscience than knowing she’ll die.

Dagon’s body evaporates suddenly. Guess he did his job too well. But without anyone on top of him, Hastur is given a rather gorgeous view of they sky as he lays dying. Maroon and churning, speckled with angels and demons alike.

And just as the sky starts to fade away, peppered wings ascend to join them, and a birthday wish is fulfilled.

 

There aren’t many perspectives we can jump to for this next part, as many of them are dead. We could experience this scene from the eyes of R. P. Tyler, who is cooped up inside his house with his weiner dog as an angel and a demon tussle on his rooftop. However, it would probably be best if we fly up with Abigail ourselves. That’s the power of fiction; we can do whatever the hell we want.

Abigail is currently descending over Tadfield and crying her eyes out. Her seven year old brain can’t comprehend the horrors of what she’s seen in what can only be a span of twenty minutes. Her father has been murdered, her hometown is burning, and her world is ending. It’s ending for everyone, but for a kid the world revolves solely around them.

The people of Tadfield should be grateful for her small-minded thinking, as it’s going to be the very thing that saves their lives.

Raphael’s powers were as infinite as God and Raphael’s imagine would allow him to be. Children are just as imaginative as they are selfish, and all Abigail wants is for everything to go back to the way it was.

She starts wailing, big, fat, heavy tears that will drop on some unsuspecting leaf or flower. And as she does, the sky turns a shimmering silver.

And it begins to rain.

Droplets of pure, stark gray light soak the plans of Tadfield in a matter of minutes. Not a blade of grass, nor abandoned corpse is left dry. Even those buried in their houses find themselves strangely moist, and completely and utterly confused.

Somewhere in reality, Death seethes in anger as Abigail resurrects the hundreds of souls currently inhabiting Tadfield, and consequently bringing an end to the Apocalypse for a second time.

One last thing about children: they are like stars. Bright and bursting with energy, but will inevitably burn out. There are few things more exhausting than what Abigail has just done, so as the skies clear and both immortal armies retreat, she loses consciousness and like Icarus falls back to the Earth from whence she came.

 

Adam opens his eyes and finds himself on the floor.

And wet, which is concerning.

He sits up, and a dozen angels and demons have the exact same idea. The archangel Gabriel leans on the kitchen table to steady himself. Prince Beezlebub looks as if they might have to sit down again.

Everyone is armed but no one looks ready to start another fight. They all just sort of stare at each other, dazed and confused.

Adam looks down at his shirt and finds a sizable cut in the fabric. He’s able to piece together what happened rather quickly, as well as a good reason why he’s not dead anymore. His gut tells him he has somewhere else to be right now, and he rushes out of the cottage.

The angels and demons aren’t in such a rush to leave. Gabriel is looking at Beelzebub, with an expression that says _Was Armageddon really canceled twice?_

“I, uh…” he starts.

“Did-Um…” they try.

Neither one can get a coherent thought to pass through their lips.

“Right, so...discuss this later?” Gabriel asks.

Beelzebub blinks. “I guess?”

With nothing left to do, both sides take their leave. Once they reach their respective domains, they pass out from the exhaustion of being resurrection. A rest will do nicely to calm their flaring tempers.

 

Anyone paying attention would have seen Abigail’s flight, and with added parental instinct Aziraphale had been watching at the precise moment she emerged from Hogback Woods. He also watched as the rains ceased and their daughter plummeted back to Earth like an asteroid.

Now, he’s hobbling like a mad man, trying his best not to jostle Crowley as they race to meet her. Save her, if they can. But at this rate, they’ll never make it in time.

Aziraphale won’t allow himself to be tempted by the possibility of losing his entire family in a day. Even though it’s the future he’ll be facing.

Abigail falls below the treeline and is stolen from their sights. Shimmering water splashes under his feet.

“ _NO!_ ”

The wind rushes up from behind them, and a blur of curls and autumn clothing flies straight into the forest. There’s a _woosh_ , the snapping of a few tree limbs, and then a young voice calling out, “I CAUGHT HER!”

Sure enough, once they catch up to Adam, he’s got Abigail in his arms. She appears unharmed, and dead asleep. There will be no rousing her. But she is alive. Aziraphale can feel it.

Adam sets her down next to Anathema and Newt. Almost instinctively, and rather amazingly, she curls up against them. Adam backs away, swaying on his feet and looking rather ill.

Aziraphale lays Crowley down as well, easing him into the most comforting position he can. He cradles his husband’s head in the crook of his arm, carefully removing his sunglasses.

Crowley squints, face caught in a grimace. Adam approaches hesitantly, suddenly sniffling.

“You...you shouldn’t have saved me.”

It takes Crowley a second to find the boy’s face. He huffs out a laugh. “I didn’t...do a very good job, though, did I? You’re...probably tired, kid.”

Adam nods, movements sluggish. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. My choice. Would’ve...would’ve made it over and over again. Now sleep.”

Adam nods once more. He lowers himself down, but loses his balance halfway there. Naturally, he falls backwards and sinks into the dirt. Instantly, he is asleep.

Crowley lifts a limp arm up to his face. His watch is nearly coated with his blood. Nearly. He laughs again. “7:17.”

“What’s so funny?”

A smirk dances on his lips, as if dying were so little an issue. “This armageddon only lasted twenty minutes. ‘S new record.”

Aziraphale would laugh, but as soon as he opens his mouth the sob he’s been holding back will escape. He wipes the sweat from Crowley’s brow, fingertips trailing down his clammy cheek.

Crowley’s eyebrows knit together. “Angel, I’m coming back. This is pointless. Y’should go...get them all out of here. Who knows when...the fightin’ will start again.”

Aziraphale takes his hand and holds it tightly. “I won’t leave you. Not for a third time.”

Crowley’s expression melts. Tears well up in both their eyes. Aziraphale inhales shakily, desperate to get as many words in as he can.

“You can feel it, surely. They’ve gone. It’s just us now.”

“Actually...I can’t feel much of anything now.” It seems apparent that it’s true. Crowley’s features are slowly relaxing, like a balloon losing its air gradually through a small hole. “Guess it’s almost time...Hey. I’m gonna make sure to get it in...I...I love you.”

Aziraphale gives a weepy smile. He brings Crowley’s hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I love you too, dear,” he whispers. Any louder and the universe will remember they have a demon to take.

He starts shaking his head, back and forth, never once looking away from Crowley.

“Oh, what am I supposed to do? You always know what to do. Tell me. How do I survive this? How did you survive this? Twice?”

Crowley gives him a sad, hopeless smile. There’s no advice to be given here. “Well...difference is...you got to say goodbye…”

Then Crowley’s smile falls, his body limpens, and he is gone.

 

Tadfield will forget what happened on October 21st once Adam wakes up. For one night, they’ll have to endure relentless tossing and turning, as they try to make sense of the living nightmare they’ve all experienced.

Only a handful will remember, and they too are sleeping now. Soundly and safely under the protection of the starry night sky.

The only one still awake is Aziraphale. He has just finished laying Crowley in a grave he dug under the very stars his husband created. With heaven and hell finally out of the equation, he miracles a proper marker, engravings and all.

_Here Lies Crowley_

_Forgiven_

_See You Soon, Love_

Aziraphale kneels before his grave, and continues kneeling until the sun rises and his six years begin.


	15. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What follows Armageddon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random question but does anyone know how to make a vine comp??? Preferably with free apps I could download onto my phone
> 
> Also random I watched mission impossible: fallout the other day and I never realized how gay Ethan and benji are for each other pls tell me I’m not the only one aboard this ship 
> 
> I know the last two chapters were rough; so thank you all for hanging in there!!! We’re falling into a short calm before the storm following this chapter, as we catch up with the gang these past six years

There’s dirt in Anathema’s mouth.

It’s coating her front teeth, like a disgusting dental guard she would slip on at night. She runs her tongue along its run, spitting out as much of it as she can.

The ground is cold beneath her, and filthy. The ground should be filthy. It seems everything has been turned back to normal. She’s alive, after all.

Dying hadn’t been as dramatic as she thought it would be.

With arms of pudding, Anathema lifts herself upright. Leaves fall from her hair, one landing on Abigail’s face. The poor girl is fast asleep, a tight frown stretched across her face. She’s aged a million years in a day. No one can blame her for needing a rest.

Anathema plucks the leaf aside, brushing a loose strand of Abigail’s hair away as well. The girl doesn’t stir one bit.

There’s a soft  _ crunch _ , somewhere in front of her. Anathema doesn’t have to look very hard to find Aziraphale. The angel’s kneeling, looking behind his shoulder at her with wide, glossy eyes.

Anathema’s been here before. Though her limbs are made of lead, she rises to feet. Aziraphale turns his head back as she approaches, lost in his grief. He’ll be lost for some time now.

She gets close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. It’s mostly to balance herself, but that doesn’t mean a supportive gesture has to be lost.

Aziraphale tenses. He’s shaking, she realizes, and she wonders for how long.

“It’s a lovely marker,” she speaks softly.

A sob bursts out of Aziraphale, but he quickly masks it. He inhales as if to speak, but is unable to offer any words. What can he say that their situation hasn’t already said for him?

The sun stretches its arms across the sky. As the world is bathed in golden light, the mud caking Anathema’s shoes begins to dry.

 

This is what should have happened:

Crowley should have been died. He should have appeared exactly where Aziraphale said he would, outside the bookshop, with a white abyss flanking his every direction. He should be able to walk right up to the front door, knock, and find Abigail waiting on the other side.

This is what should have happened, and it does. There are no other curveballs coming his way.

He just about hammers down the door, his fist banging against the wood with a vendetta. Someone (you know who) starts knocking just as hard on the other side. Her face appears in the glass. She’s smirking, and at the moment still seven years old.

Crowley smiles, though his lip quivers. He takes a step back as Abigail opens the door, digging his hands into his pockets. He at least wants to appear composed.

“I was coming, y’know.”

“I don’t have a lot of time…needed you to hurry.”

It’s just as daunting as Aziraphale described it, how Abigail ages before his eyes. Time flows like a dropped water bucket, swiftly and gracefully captured in his eyes. But the impact leaves a hole in him just as hollow as the empty container.

She grows a good two feet or so, her hair growing longer just in the opposite direction. It’s braided messily and draped over her shoulder, like a rope she could tie to a tree branch and make a tire swing with. Though she seems much too big to want to swing anymore.

Freckles have been splattered on her face, having darkened from years of sun damage. She must spend a lot of time outdoors, based on her tan. Maybe it has something to do with her broad, athletic appearance. The football jersey is also a giveaway.

Crowley’s heart starts to fail. He puts a hand over his chest, struggling to breathe. So this is what it feels like. To be ripped from your life and thrown back into it without warning. To miss someone you don’t know anymore. How did his dear angel ever cope with this?

“You...You sure you’re only thirteen? Not twenty?”

Abigail laughs. “Puberty hit early. I’m guessing you have a lot of questions?”

“I...doubt you can give me any answers to ‘em.”

She motions for him to come inside. “Let’s see how many I can.”

 

Sunlight stabs at Hastur’s eyelids. He is awoken abruptly from his sleep, partially by the sun, and partially because of the stick poking into his neck.

He jerks upright, accidentally stabbing himself. With a wince, he lays back down.

“You have one minute to explain yourself.”

Aziraphale is glaring down at him, eyes a smoldering blue steel. They are the eyes of someone who has just lost  _ everything _ . Someone who feels they are no longer trapped by loss and therefore can use it to their advantage.

Hastur swallows, the stick digging into his esophagus. With that halo still over his head, discorporation is not an option. His words must be chosen wisely. A common confession won’t be enough.

“Is Abigail alright?”

It’s the right answer. Aziraphale gapes, taken aback. However, he does not pull the stick away.

“That other demon ordered you to kill her,” Anathema recalls, stepping forward. She looks like she’s taken a trip to hell, though more accurately hell has taken a trip to her. “They killed us...so what did you do after?”

Hastur realizes they’re not going to give him an answer. Assuming the worst, he looks for the answer instead. Coming up just behind Anathema is Newt, looking just as disheveled and equally traumatized. He reaches for her hand and she takes it with little hesitation. They are both trembling. He forgets mortals aren’t used to dying.

No sign of Abigail. Yet he can feel the halo pulsing weakly around his cranium. She must be alive.

“I killed my old boss...saw Abigail fly into the sky. Then I died. But I’m not dead now. Neither are you. So where is she?”

“Why do you _ care? _ ” Anathema spats.

Hastur keeps his mouth shut. Acknowledging the truth means turning his back on his nature. Without all that’s been embedded in him since his fall, who even  _ is _ he?

Aziraphale stares at him for a minute longer. Then finally, he pulls his stick away. Maybe he senses what Hastur is too afraid to say. “She’s fine. Unharmed. Resting.”

A heavy sigh pushes its way out of Hastur. He moves to stand, everyone else backing up to give him space. Now they’re all standing, caught in the orbit of a disjointed solar system. What a group they make up.

Just beyond them, curled up in the decaying foliage, is Abigail. Unharmed. Resting.

Something hot wedges itself in Hastur’s throat, and he knows it’s not bruising from the stick.

He hates it, only because it’s all he knows how to do.

“What now?” Newt asks.

Wordlessly, Aziraphale walks over to Abigail and picks her up with a gentleness only a guardian could have. She slumps against his chest, her hair drawing over her face like a curtain. If she wakes up any time today, Hastur will be surprised.

“We go home,” Aziraphale finally utters. Then he takes off walking in that very direction.

Everyone else follows suit, not having anything better to do. Hastur almost misses the grave as he’s walking past, the etching sending a shiver down his spine.

The word forgiven brands itself at the forefront of his mind. It will torment him for the many long years that follow.

 

“Are you an archangel?”

Abigail scoffs. “Hell no.”

“Language, kiddo.”

“Oh  _ please _ ,” she teases him. “You’ve said far worse around me.”

“Yes, but I don’t remember teaching you  _ to _ swear.”

They’ve nestled themselves farther back in the bookstop, and have surrounded Aziraphale’s cluttered desk in his study. There’s a cracked leather suitcase sitting atop of it, without an ounce of dusk coating the outside. Crowley knows what it means, and tries not to picture where he’ll end up once he’s returned.

“I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me. Not to be a debbie downer, but...I’m way different here.”

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. “And where is here?”

Abigail smiles. “I can’t answer that. Not now.”

“But you can.  _ Eventually _ .”

She nods. “Eventually, yes.”

“Who controls when that’ll be? You?”

This time she just stares at him, waiting for the dots to connect. When Crowley’s jaw starts to slack and his arms fall to his sides, she smiles again.

“Who am I really talking to?”

“It’s me dad. Honest.”

“Then why don’t you remember any of this?”

Abigail pauses for a moment. “I think I do remember, just...not now.”

Crowley gives her an accusing look. “You  _ think? _ ” He scoffs, grinning dangerously. “So this really is Her doing? What’s the time gap supposed to mean? Why six years?”

A somber look falls over her face. Crowley only recognizes the responsibility she holds to herself by the guilt in her eyes. “It’s my doing...but there’s only so much I can do. I’m breaking the rules of reality saving you at all. This is the best I can do. I’m sorry…”

Crowley blinks. “No. No, don’t-” He takes a step forward, wanting to reach out an arm but unsure if he should. “Don’t be sorry, sweet pea. You are doing your best. It’s selfish of me to ask so much of you.”

Her smile this time does not come as easily, but it grows nonetheless. “I can’t get away with as much as Adam. If only I got to be the Antichrist.”

Crowley finally reaches out that arm, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “Be glad you aren’t. Be glad you’re you.”

Abigail looks as if she might cry, but she shrugs off his hand and is soon back to her old, cheerful self. “So what’ll it be dad? Ottawa Binns? Nostradamus? Mother Shipton?”

“Whichever you think your father would enjoy best.”

“Well, Nostradamus signed his so I’d go for that one.”

She pulls a weathered book out of the suitcase, one that is centuries older than her. To Crowley, it looks no different than any other book in the store, but he knows his angel will appreciate having it back as compared to a first edition of any other genre. Especially when it comes with him as a bonus.

He eyes the book oddly. “So I just...pick it up?”

“And you’ll be with us,” Abigail assures him.

“Six years after?”

“Six exactly.”

“So...it’ll be your birthday then?”

“Yep.”

Crowley takes on last look at her, chest tight. “Alright then...I best be off.”

Abigail passes him the book. “See you soon dad.”

And he disappears.

 

“Here’s another one.”

Another gummy worm goes flying into the air. Abigail opens her mouth wide, positions herself, and feels it snack against her cheek.

“Try me again!”

Another worm goes sailing. This one hits her in the eye.

“Wow. You suck.”

It’s hard for Abigail to take any offense from Renee at this point in their friendship. Years of joshing each other around has taught her to know when her best friend really means what she says.

Plus, when she finds Renee as cute as she does...well, a crush always tends to lean towards some leniency on the piner’s end.

“All my coordination went to my feet.” Finally wanting to eat, Abigail digs into their shared bag and pulls out a handful of gelatinous delites. “Why do you think I play football?”

“‘Cause you’re the tallest kid in our grade and you really wanted to live the life of a stereotypical jock.”

“Har har.” All the worms go into her mouth at once. “‘R jus’ jealous ‘cause ‘m a bett’r play’r than y’.”

Renne leaps to her feet, all five foot nothing of her. “Oh, you wanna go? You wanna throw down right here?”

She hops around intimidatingly, fists raised. If she hadn’t given herself a buzz cut, her old braids would be swinging around like crazy.

Abigail tries really hard not to choke as she starts laughing. “C’lm down! Y’re crazy!”

“ _ And _ I’m the team captain, so don’t you forget it,” Renne reminds her. She jumps back up onto the stone fencing, coming back for some more gummy worms.

Abigail swallows, choking hazards gone. “You don’t let anyone forget.”

“I don’t talk it about it that much!”

“ _ Well- _ ”

Renne laughs. “Alright. Alright. I’ll let you have that one, birthday girl. Speaking of which…”

She hoists her sling bag off her bag and dumps it into her lap. Something present-shaped tugs at the fabric.

Abigail rolls her eyes. “Ren.”

“Abs.”

“I told you not to get me anything.”

“Yeah, I know,” she confesses, yet pulls out her gift anyway. “But I didn’t want to see you bummed out on another birthday. So here.”

She plops a crudely-wrapped box into Abigail’s lap. It’s no bigger than a bread loaf, and no smaller than a watch box.

“Happy birthday.”

Abigail holds the box in her hands. She shakes it. “I hate you.”

“Hate you too,” Renne coos sweetly.

Abigail sticks her tongue out, then attacks the wrapping paper. Shreddings litter the dirt like neon leaves. A plain cardboard box is all that remains of the carnage.

“Wow, thanks.”

“Look in the box, stupid.”

Abigail untucks the front side and pushes it open. A layer of tissue paper quivers under her gaze. It is easily torn through, and her prize is finally revealed.

“You...got me a stuffed bird.”

“Yeah.”

“Why a bird?”

“It wasn’t on sale, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Renne is grinning, but Abigail doesn’t have the heart for it. She stares into the black, beady eyes of the bird and right back into her own.

“Ah shit. I bummed you out, didn’t I?”

“What? No. No, you’re fine.”

“I thought you liked birds.”

“I do like birds. Just-”

“But you’re obviously sad. And I made you sad. And-damn.”

Renne sets her head atop her hands, just as upset as Abigail. She is as much of an empathizer as she is a jokester.

Abigail pats her back, forcing a smile. “You didn’t know. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s a...personal thing.”

“Wanna tell me about it so it doesn’t happen again?”

Abigail thinks about it, honestly considering spilling her guts, but Renne beats her to it.

“You don’t have to. Just offering. And you don’t have to keep the bird.”

Abigail smiles. “But I’ve already named them.”

Renne perks up. “Oh?”

“Yeah, after you. Stinky.”

It earns Abigail a punch to the arm but it’s worth it just to see the smile on Renee’s face. She tucks Stinky into her own bag and cleans up her waste. All this time Renee is dribbling with herself, ball bouncing between her feet at lightning speed.

They head back in the direction of Pulsifer cottage, passing the football between them. The mood has shifted to something more lighthearted, though Abigail doesn’t miss the longing glances Renne occasionally throws at her. Her attitude couldn’t be more of an act.

“You good?” Renee asks out of the blue.

“I’m good. Really.”

“M’kay. Because if you’re not, the offer still stands.”

Abigail keeps the ball a bit longer, jumping up to tap her toes against the top. Just slightly showing off. “It’s dead dad stuff. I don’t really wanna get into it.”

Renee nods, never one to push. “Gotcha.”

The ball is passed between them again, the day passing just as idly now. This will be the highlight of it, as Abigail prefers to spend her birthday as if it were any other day. She has for many years now.

She kicks the ball to Renee, her eyes following it as it continues to roll. Renee has stopped walking, staring off in a trance ahead of them.

“Who’s that?”

Abigail chases her gaze, and suddenly that dead dad stuff no longer applies to her.

Standing like a deer in headlights, with a book in his hand, is Crowley. He’s much more alive than he has any right to be, and Abigail is much more surprised than she has any right to be either.

Though it is a traumatic experience, celestial powers or not.

Crowley tosses the book aside, arms now outstretched. He takes a step forward and Abigail breaks into a mad sprint.

Yards become inches and years become now. She throws her arms around him, nearly tackling to the ground. Crowley holds her back with a vengeance, trembling with unfathomable relief.

“Don’t leave,” she sobs into his chest. “Please, d-don’t leave again.”

With that, Aziraphale’s six years are over. He just doesn’t know it yet. 


	16. An Ineffable Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More reunions are had. A perspective changes. Bad omens loom closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really have anything to say this time so how are you all doing? Anything cool happening in your lives? Any recommendations for anything? I wish you all the best with whatever you’re doing <3

Azriaphale has seen many horrifying creations in his lifetime. The guillotine, mustard gas, the shake weight.

All of these pale in comparison to the peanut butter, sardine, and blueberry sandwich Anathema is currently eating.

She takes a humongous bite, the tail of a sardine sticking to her cheek with the buttery adhesive. Aziraphale gags, covering his mouth in case his stomach gives out on him.

“Y’r seriously missin’ out,” Anathema tells him. “Pregnancy cravin’s are wack.”

 _The baby can’t come soon enough_ , Aziraphale thinks. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Movement catches the corner of his eye. His head snaps towards the kitchen window, pulse racing. A bird lands on the window seal and bursts into a midday melody. His heart drops.

Sympathy pulls at Anathema’s features. She sets her sandwich down, and plants a sticky hand over the angel’s. “He’ll show up eventually.”

Aziraphale straightens himself, smiling reassuringly. “Of course he will. Just like I did…” But he is unable to convince either of them. No one hardly paid any attention to the time when he returned seven years prior. Every sliver of the sky the sun passes, another knot of worry is woven into his gut.

Footsteps come pounding down the stairs, They both look as Newt enters the kitchen, a big goofy grin on his face. His beard appears fuller as a result. “Just got off the phone with Nancy.”

Nancy, his publisher, and just recently Anathema’s as well. Anathema finishes chewing quickly. “Was it approved?”

Newt gives her two big thumbs up.

Anathema gasps, eyes shining. “Babe! We’re publishing a book!”

“I know!” Newt pulls her into a hug from behind, peppering her cheek with kisses. Anathema snorts, cheeks flushing. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“Your beard tickles!”

The two of them dissolve into a mess of giggles, as giddy as children in the aftermath of Halloween. If their love were radiation, Aziraphale would need a hazmat suit to survive the waves of affection rolling off of them.

They deserve every lick of happiness the world will grant them. Four careful years were spent falling back in love at a healthier pace. Two were then spent trying to conceive and finding it to be heartbreakingly difficult. The only thing giving them hope for a time was the picture book they wrote for their future offspring. Now that their child is almost ready to make their introduction, it seems only fitting they’d be able to read that book for real.

Newt calms down, clearing his throat. “So, we’ll have to call her back and sort out all the legal stuff. But they _are_ interested. I just figured you’d be better at handling all that.”

Anathema lifts her head up to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Do I gotta call her back by a certain time? We’re still waiting.”

“I told her already we’ve got some, ah, family matters we’re addressing today. She’s free around tea tomorrow.”

There’s more movement from the outside, once again drawing Aziraphale to attention. A football comes rolling down the street, running away from its owner. It spooks the bird, who stops singing and takes off suddenly.

Aziraphale slouches in his chair, tired of being given the run-around. His eyes drift to the floor. Phantom pools of nickel form underneath the dining table. He blinks, pools vanishing, and sets his gaze elsewhere.

Anathema and Newt are going on about their book, growing more excited with each passing minute. Aziraphale tunes them out, mind drifting elsewhere. He’s found that every high point in their lives these past six years have reminded him how far he’s fallen into his grief.

Lord, he’s tried his best. He’s done all he could as a single parent, and as an angel who’s cast himself from heaven’s good graces. But now, so close to the end, he realizes he’s been holding on by a thread for far too long.

First order of business when Crowley gets back is to take his husband upstairs, collapse onto their bed, and catch his first wink of sleep in a long time.

As Renee comes running down the street chasing after her ball, followed closely behind by two celestial entities, he stands, his mattress calling his name.

 

Abigail is holding his hand. Tightly. May-cut-off-his-circulation tight.

Crowley hasn’t the slightest idea what teens deem appropriate for physical contact with their parents. Hand holding seems like a no-no, reserved solely for young rascals who can’t be trusted to walk across a parking lot on their own. Yet here he is watching his fingers turn purple, not really caring what young mortals deem cool and acceptable.

“You’ve missed a lot.”

“Mm. Seems I have. You’re as tall as a sasquatch.”

Abigail gives a wet laugh, wiping her eyes. “‘M the tallest kid in my grade. Think that has something to do with archangel powers?”

Crowley has to do a double take. “You know about that?”

“I know a lot of stuff. I made dad tell me. I’m old enough to really get what’s been going on with heaven and hell and...me.”

Crowley side-eyes their human tag-along, wondering if he should tell Abigail to keep her voice down.

Abigail sense his concern. “Oh, Renee this is my dad. The dead one. Dad, Renee.”

“I’m the...captain of our football team,” Renee introduces herself awkwardly. “And you’re...not dead anymore?”

“It’s a long story,” Abigail confesses. “Can...can I tell it to you later?”

Renee kicks her football far off ahead of her, too distracted to notice. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, you two seen to, uh...got a lot of catching up to do. Um...I’ll come by tomorrow?”

Abigail smiles warmly. It’s a kind of warmth that burns from a certain kind of hearth, one Crowley once tended to for six thousand years. “That’d be great Ren. Thank you.”

Renee smiles nervously, notices her ball is missing, and takes off after it.

Crowley squeezes his daughter’s hand, still having a bit of feeling left in his digits. “So...you gonna tell me about her?”

It’s amusing (yet oddly terrifying) how fast Abigail’s face flushes. “ _Da-ad_. Now’s not the time.”

They pass the bush blocking their view of Pulsifer cottage. It is a sight for sore, serpent eyes. The structure is just as cute and quaint as Crowley remembers it being not ten minutes ago. Just down the road, Renee takes off in the direction of home with her ball in hand. Above them, a bird soars past singing happily.

And walking out the front door of the cottage is a bastard of angel, who is very worth knowing, and looks no different than he did half a dozen years ago.

Crowley trips over himself, coming to a premature stop.

Abigail gives him a tug. “Dad?”

He needs a second, just a second, to calm his frantic heart. “You’re right. Now is very much not the time.”

Abigail smiles. She lets his hand go, and Crowley takes off running.

 

Six years prior, Aziraphale finds himself sitting on the edge of his child’s bed. He finds he’s been sitting there for quite some time now, and he’s worried if his daughter will wake up at all.

But finally, in the middle of that very night. Abigail does thankfully stir. She lifts her head from her pillow, her hair terribly tangled and in desperate need of a wash.

“Abigail? Does anything hurt, dear?”

Abigail flinches at his words, even though he’s speaking in the softest of tones. “Is dad dead?”

A sharp pain catches Aziraphale’s chest. He scoots closer to his daughter, pulling her into his arms. She leans into him, a pitiful sight to be seen. “I’m so sorry Abby. Your father...your father passed away yesterday. He..h-he won’t be coming back for a while.”

Tiny sniffles fill the room. Aziraphale holds her tighter, trying very hard not to cry himself. He’s all she has left now, which isn’t true at all. There are other people on the floor below them who would give their very life for his child, and already have.

He is, however, the one who only has her left. The only one who loved Crowley as much as he ever did. Ever will. And still does. But it’s different for their family. They were created to lose, it seems, and oh how much they have lost.

No ounce of divinity ever brought back a minute of time.

“Do you think I’ll forget him?” Abigail whimpers.

“W-What? No, darling. No, you could never forget him.”

“But I forgot you. I’m so sorry…”

Aziraphale looks down at her, at the tears leaving streaks down her dirt-covered face, and smiles painfully. “Oh Abby, you were just a baby. That’s not your fault. You’re much bigger now. You’ll remember Crowley perfectly.”

Abigail hiccups. “Who’s Raphael?”

Aziraphale backs away quickly, taking her gently by the shoulders. “Who?”

“Raphael. I...I don’t know who deh are.”

“How do you know that name?”

She shrugs, licking the snot trailing out of her nose. “Jus’ came t’me.”

Aziraphale wipes her face with the edge of his sleeve. He rubs a soothing circle into her cheek, defusing her mounting hysteria. “That was your father’s name, but he’s not Raphael anymore. Raphael was an angel, and Crowley is a nice demon.”

“S’what does dat make me?”

It’s an ineffable question, for a family that is just as much so. “It makes you _you_ , Abigail. And there’s no greater thing to be.”

Her eyes shimmer with fresh tears. “But if I’m an angel an’ a demon...why do they all hate me?”

Aziraphale tries to conjure up an explanation, one that ease any and all fears she may have of herself. But before he can string together the right words, she’s fallen asleep again in his arms.

 

Here is a math problem for you to solve:

If Crowley takes off running fifteen yards away from Pulsifer cottage and Aziraphale takes off at that very same time in his direction, who will meet the other first?

The answer doesn’t matter, because they meet either way. Tearful and whole again.

Aziraphale collapses almost bonelessly into their embrace. He smells of spruce and autumn spice and lacks the vintage musk he used to emanate. That’s all that’s changed physically. Emotionally, there are a great deal of pieces that need to be put back together.

He’s pushed his face into Crowley’s shoulder, and can’t be moved. Crowley holds him back as it’s all he can do, shaking once more.

“Oh angel. Angel, it was only a few minutes but Satan, _Satan_ I missed you.”

Aziraphale pulls back enough to face him, mere moments away from a sob. “I understand now. How you got so tired. Crowley…”

Crowley brings their foreheads together, needy for contact. He relishes in the soft puffs of breath that brush against his nose. “I’m so sorry love. I know. I know it was so long. Forgive me angel.”

“You are forgiven. You’ve been forgiven for so long. I don’t care what The Almighty thinks.”

Crowley grabs onto his arm. “Careful now, angel.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, eyes burning. “I’ll say whatever I so desire. I had to bury you, Crowley. I-”

He is unable to continue, voice giving out. For Crowley, there was no body for him to lay to rest. Only the ashes of a life since lost. He imagines Aziraphale having a physical marker to haunt him all this time, and seethes with rage. But it is dampened by the somberness of this moment, one that has happened before but is now reversed.

An arm slinks around Crowley’s backside, but it’s not Aziraphale’s. Abigail worms her way around them, crying again. They rearrange themselves to hold her back.

A cocoon of wings is formed around the three of them. A pallet of colors from opposite ends of the spectrum meeting partially in the middle, standing out amongst the crimson foliage of the season. In spite of everything, their family shares their first proper embrace in thirteen years.

 

Off in Nepal, frost nipping at his robes, Death sense yet another change of fate in Tadfield.

He grips his scythe hard enough to break it, a metaphorical frown digging into his metaphorical face.

The temptations of a very pushy archangel and an equally pushy prince of hell come back to him, and for the first time in six years he honestly considers their proposals.

He decides that if he is pushed further, his next visit will be Tadfield.


	17. Previous and Future Engagements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More reunions and flashbacks. Kinda the norm with this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why but I had the strong urge to finish Sherlock this week so I binged seasons 1-3, had multiple heart attacks, and promptly ordered s4. I haven’t seen it yet so no spoilers but pls I got into a show no one cares about anymore and I just want John to be happy :(
> 
> 7/10 could’ve done without the queer baiting but the opening is a bop and a half

Hastur has been brooding.

Demons like to brood. It’s their favorite hobby. Despite what’ll happen in the six years before Crowley’s return, Hastur will always love to brood. He’s brooding now, just a week or so after Abigail’s seventh birthday.

The sky is overcast, just as muddled as his thoughts. Every day, he struggles to comprehend what happened on Doomsday, and every day he runs further from the truth. He can rationalize the decision to kill Dagon as self-defense, except it wasn’t. He can convince himself he would have killed Abigail if Armageddon hadn’t been sprung on him so suddenly, but that too is a lie.

He can’t be a risen demon. When those lower down the demonic foodchain think of someone truly evil, they think of him. Or at least, Hastur has always assumed so. He’s a duke of hell after all.

Was a duke. Satan, that still stings. The ultimate demotion.

The backyard of Pulsider cottage opens into a smaller patch of trees. A private wilderness shrouded in midday darkness. It consumes Hastur’s gaze like a never-ending feast, his eyes never wavering from the window as he falls deeper into his thoughts.

Static fills his ears, loud enough to pop them. He winces, focusing on the subtle pattern there is to the madness. There’s always a pattern, he’s come to realize. A coherent blip in the nonsense that repeats.

Right now, Abigail seems to be crying about her _Dad. Dad. Dad._

Her door is just down the hall. Hastur is only checking on her to make the static stop. That’s all.

He creeps past the other bedrooms, not wanting to draw attention to himself. The frozen lake of acceptance in the household is thinning. Any wrong move will cast him out into the icy depths.

Abigail’s door is already cracked open. He peers an eye inside. She’s half-heartedly pushing a _Hot Wheel_ across her carpet, her face red and puffy.

Something makes her snap. She throws her toy across the room and watches it hit the wall with a _smack!_ Then she finally notices him in the doorway.

They stare at each other for a moment, before Abigail stands and walks over to him. She opens the door further, a curious look on her face. “‘Zit lunch time?”

Hastur blinks. “Uh...maybe.”

Abigail nods, then walks right past him. She sniffles down the stairs, and Hastur follows her in a daze. He’s led all the way to the kitchen, where a hungry seven year old waits to be served.

“I wanna sandwich.”

“A sandwich?”

“Mm.”

Hastur shrugs. “Okay. Get your father to do it.”

“No, you make it for me.”

The halo glows above him. A heavenly order has been given, and he is powerless to go against it. “H-How do I make a...sandwich? Where’s the sand?”

Abigail shakes her head. “Get bread, ‘n honey an’ peanut butt’r.”

Hastur starts going through the cabinets. He’s overwhelmed by the hundreds of colorful labels and odd-shaped containers. The sensory overload paired with the static is not making this an enjoyable first-time experience with cooking.

“It looks like ah bear.”

Hastur spies a crusty honey bottle in the back of the main pantry. “And the butter?”

“I dunno.”

He pushes various condiments aside looking for the peanut butter, before becoming frustrated and knocking them all to the floor. Something shatters by his foot. No one comes running downstairs, so he continues with his rampage.

Finally, he finds it. Not in the pantry, but with the discarded jars on the floor. Ingredients assembled, he takes a butter knife from the utensil drawer and suddenly freezes.

“Which goes on first?”

“Doesn’t matt’r.”

“Alright then.”

He opens the peanut butter and stabs the inside with the knife. A thin sliver of butter covers the blade.

“That’s not enough.”

“Scoop it.”

“But it’s not a spoon.”

“You gotta do a twisty thing.” Abigail mines what she’s trying to get across. Hastur follows the motions to a T. A little bit more peanut butter comes out, but not nearly enough.

Frustrated, Hastur holds the jar over the bread, breaks the plastic, and lets the glop that escapes fall onto the bread.

Abigail giggles weakly. “Now the honey.”

Fuming, Hastur grabs the honey and crushes it in his hand. A trickle of honey squeezes out between his fingers. Just enough to balance well with the peanut butter. Well, not really but it’s the best he can do.

Again, he tosses the remains onto the floor. He wipes his hands on his trench coat, but finds his hands are now sticking to himself. With a huff, he tears himself free and pushes Abigail’s plate towards here. “There.”

Abigail takes the top slice of bread and smushes it as best she can over her mangled sandwich. She holds up the sloppy mess to her face. A small smile spreads across it. “T’ank you.”

She takes a bite, right as the static disappears. Hastur watches her eat, the tightness in his chest paralyzing him. The rage he thinks he’s experiencing lacks the fire he’s used to.

It must be something else then. One of those feelings he’s been trying to convince himself he doesn’t have.

Abigail finishes her sandwich at an inhuman speed, which would be accurate in any situation. She wipes her face with her shirt, then slides out of her chair.

As she walks towards the chairs, Hastur bursts.

“Why did you save me?”

Abigail turns to him, looking a bit confused.

“I felt bad.”

Hastur never should’ve expected her answer to make sense to him. “Why did you feel bad?”

She shrugs. “Dunn. Jus’ didn’t feel right.”

The tightness is unbearable. Hastur can feel his ribs cracking. “I’ve done bad things, Abigail. Bad things to your family. Don’t ever save me again.”

Abigail takes a step back, frowning. “But y’re not bad.”

“I’m a demon.”

“S’m I. S’my dad…” She trails off, suddenly reminded of why she was so emotional to begin with. “Not all demons are bad.”

Damn it all. Does the Almighty want him to admit it? Is it really hard for him to do it anyway?

Hastur cares about this kid. He can’t go on denying it anymore. But it’s not like he’s about to go on dying for her.

Oh. He’s already done that, actually.

Well, he won’t go dying again. Twice was enough. But he will have her back, since she’s the only one that’s got his.

 

If any of you are familiar with hell’s interior decor, you may remember seeing a sign that states: Please DO NOT LICK THE WALLS. Why any demon would say please is a mystery. As for why the sign had to be put up, Hastur knows the exact reason why.

The quickest way to anger a prince of hell is to eat one of their flies, and the walls of hell tend to be covered in the most delectable grime known to insect kind. And flies tend to be go-to snack for reptiles, especially those who live on the heads of demons.

Hastur is one of those flies now, stuck to the wall, unsure if the reptile in the room has any particular interest in him.

But Crowley so far has been distracted, too busy catching up with everyone else to pay himm much mind, even though they’re occupying the same room.

“You’re _pregnant?!”_

Anathema is bubbly with laughter. She pulls the demon in for another hug, the embrace a bit awkward given her belly bump. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Crowley pushes her back by the shoulders, his face twisting and contorting with shock. “Bu-Y- _Wh-?!_ _How?!_ No, I know how. Don’t answer that. But you-! And _him-!_ ”

He points at Newt, who stops itching his beard to smile.

“Ehw. Gonna have to get rid of mine…So names? Already got one?”

Anathema puts a fond hand to her belly. “Not yet, just ideas. Nothing’s been decided on yet. We’ve got a few months left to go.”

A rather goofy smile stretches across Crowley’s face. “Well, good thing. I’ll be here for it...wait. You’ve got a ring. You got married without me?”

Aziraphale comes up beside him, sliding an arm through his. “It’s been a while, dear.”

That smile vanishes. “Right. Um. Was-How was it?”

“It was lovely,” Anathema informs him. Newt holds her from behind, head resting atop of hers. The two of them seem to fall into some kind of trance, their eyes out of focus, looking into the past. “We’ve got pictures. I’ll show them to you sometime.”

“I was the flower girl,” Abigail pipes up, voice still choked. Her spirits seem to improve the more her father interacts with everyone. Perhaps she’s still convincing herself this is all real. “Hastur spilled cake on himself. It was really funny.”

“It was not!”

With a shrill little _bzz_ , he’s drawn attention to himself. Crowley likes eyes with him like...well, a snake. His glasses weren’t so fortunate to return with him, meaning there’s no protection against his thin, fiery pupils. 

There’s really no need to be so afraid of Crowley, except there is a _very real need_ to be afraid. He’s looking into the eyes of a demon who knew someone completely different those six years ago. Hastur’s reputation has been built upon the foundation of murdering Aziraphale, as well as other heinous acts.

In spite of all that, Hastur wants to believe he’s made a place for himself here. Hell won’t have him; maybe Tadfield will. That’s what he’s finally starting to hope anyway. 

Crowley tucks his hands in his pockets and smiles. It’s razor thin and sharp with a warning. At least, that’s how Hastur interprets it.

“Hastur. You’re still here.”

Hastur gulps. “Y-Yes.”

Abigail rolls her eyes, coming to his aid. “‘Course he is, dad. Hastur’s cool. Still got the halo over him and everything, but we’re tight.”

Crowley eyes her strangely. “Tight?”

“Y’know, like, cool or whatever. We’re friends. We all are.”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale. The angel makes a sorta-kinda motion with his hand. “Mkay, good to know.”

And everyone moves on. Hastur’s defenses lower, though he keeps them partially up out of habit. It can’t be that easy, being accepted like that. Or at least tolerated. He was prepared to fight, to argue, or at least beg to stay. Not for a greeting and light questioning.

Crowley’s gone on to ask about Adam. As he’s learning how the Antichrist has since graduated from University and moved to Wales, Hastur finds himself backed up against a literal wall.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Abigail's managed to tear herself away from the group and to his side. “You wanna sit down, man?”

Hastur takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “Fine. I’m...fine.”

She smiles, though she’s still clearly worried. “You’re not going anywhere. And I think you should really take that seat.”

There truly is no better gift than validation. With Abigail’s help, he makes it to the dining table. He falls into his seat with the weight of thousands of years on his shoulder.

 

It’s a tight fit having them all on her parent’s bed, but they make it work.

Abigail is the peanut butter and honey between her parents, and their tangled arms act as the bread binding them all together. It’s never been just the three of them like this, peaceful, comfy, safe.

Night is falling, as is the temperature. The second Abigail shivers, a blanket is miracled overtop of them. She laughs, suspecting it to be Crowley’s doing. He’s gone a bit overboard with miracles since he learned the limit has been abolished.

That doesn’t mean heaven and hell are no longer a threat, but there’s little sense in hiding if everyone knows where they live. Neither side has reared their ugly since Armageddon Take Two either. Concerning, but it’s not going to stop them from living their lives.

A sleepy thought enters her mind. “Why aren’t you two married?”

Her fathers stiffen, embarrassed. Again, she laughs.

“We, um, never considered it,” Aziraphale admits.

“It’s a human thing,” Crowley explains frankly.

“Not that we wouldn’t be uninterested-”

“Wait, you’re _interested?_ ”

“I-Er-”

“You should’ve said something!”

Aziraphale sits up, flustered. “It’s hardly like we need to get married! We’ve practically _been_ married for six thousand years!”

“Six thousand and fourteen,” Abigail whispers helpfully.

Now Crowley sits up, equally flustered. “You should’ve still said something! You’re not the only one who was interested!”

“Was?”

Crowley blushes. “Is. Is interested. Very much so.”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley. Crowley stares at Aziraphale. Abigail stares at both of them, and takes the opportunity to hog the blanket for herself.

There are stars in her parents eyes, brighter than the very ones they helped create.

Aziraphale miracles a small, velvet box into his hand. “Well...in that case…”

Now Abigail sits up, jaw open. Crowley’s jaw hangs just as low.

Aziraphale pops the box open, and the question. “Crowley, will you marry me?”

The ring is woven to resemble something close to angel wings, the metal a tarnished silver. It’s hardly in Crowley’s color wheel, but judging by the black band that’s appeared on Aziraphale’s hand that may be the point.

Crowley’s smile embodies all the love that has blossomed between them. “Of course, angel.”

Abigail covers her mouth, stunned into a wonderful silence. Aziraphale slides Crowley’s ring onto his finger, looking as if he could try. If so many tears had not been shed already today, perhaps he would be able to.

Crowley inspects the ring, turning his hand over and over again to admire that it means.   
“A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, just kiss me dear.”

And Crowley does.

Abigail squeals. “Gross you two! I’m right here!”

They both shake their heads at her, then collapse back onto the bed.

“So when’s it gonna be?’ she asks.

Crowley groans sleepily. “Not now, sweetpea. That’s a decision for tomorrow.”

“A lot, actually,” Aziraphale remarks dreamily. “Who we’ll invite, a color scheme, what food we’ll have-”

“Ohhhh _no_. Is it too late to elope?”

Abigail presses a quick kiss to both their cheeks. “Six thousand and fourteen years, I’m afraid. C’mon, I wanna be fancy.”

Crowley laughs. “Anything for you, sweetheart. Tell me about Renee tomorrow, will ya?”

Aziraphale stirs. “What about Renee?”

Abigail covers her face with the blanket. “Nothing! Goodnight!”

And so they sleep, all together, and it’s just as rejuvenation as Aziraphale hoped it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also (if anyone cares) I found two perfect Sherlock songs: “Never gonna say goodbye” by Gloria Gaynor and “free fall” by rainbow kitten surprise


	18. Sleepless in Tadfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fruit Loops, shaving, knives, and text messages. Sort of in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone’s homework is to go watch mission impossible movies 3-6 then write more Ethan/benji fics for me bc I’m starving for content of my good good spy husbands thank you

Renee has always been a heavy sleeper. When her family used to live in America, she once slept through a tornado outbreak in her neighborhood. She woke up in a storm shelter, groggy and in the mood for some _Fruit Loops_.

Tonight, however, she’s restless. Not the kind of restless that grants you the liberty of tossing and turning. No, the kind that paralyses you with thoughts, leaving you on your back, defenseless.

She stares at her ceiling, trying to decipher what the hell she’s witnessed today with the limited knowledge she has.

Abigail has always had a dead dad. It’s been that way since she was seven, as Renne has been told. Normally when people have dead dads, they stay dead.

Yet Abigail’s dead dad is not so dead. Renee has a few guesses as to why, mostly consisting of supernatural and secret agent cliches. Either way she’s bothered by it all, and can’t go to sleep.

Her phone buzzes excitedly on her nightstand. She snatches it up quickly, recognizing who the champion the ringtone is singing about is.

 **Abs <3:** _so i can explain. come by tomorrow?_

They’ve never been one for formal texting, but Renee can’t help but think proper capitalization may help to calm her nerves. Or possibly worsen them. She’ll take the lowercase.

 **Renee:** _sure. what time do you want me to come by?_

Sure? _Sure?_ God, she hopes Abigail doesn’t read it as passive aggressively as she believes it to come off.

 **Abs <3:** _uhhh 9 ish?? that ok for you?_

 **Renee:** _more than ok. you alright?_

It takes Abigail a minute to respond. Renee watches those three dots dance on her screen in agony.

 **Abs <3:** _yeah. just a lot. my dads actually got engaged tonight too. everything’s moving pretty fast but it’s gonna get better i think_

Renee decides it may not be best to ask why her parents weren’t married before. She decides it’s best not to ask too many questions at all until she knows what’s going on.

 **Renee:** _ok. if you’re not you can always talk to me_

 **Abs <3:** _i know :)_

A smiley face. That’s how Renee knows everything is really okay. She sighs, finally at ease.

 **Renee:** _ok 9 tomorrow then_

 **Abs <3:** _i know it’s probably pretty freaky for you, so thanks for sticking with me_

 **Renee:** _course bud :D_

:D? _Really?_ Renee needs to go to sleep and fast.

 **Renee:** _gn_

 **Abs <3:** _night_

The phone goes back on the nightstand, but it still takes Renee a good hour to fall asleep.

 

Crowley stands before himself.

This isn’t meant to be a metaphor. He is literally standing before himself. In a mirror, that is. He turns his head from one side to the other, running a hand down his beard. A more introspective person would say the facial hair stands as a physical reminder of the years spent as a widower, and shaving it would represent him moving on and making peace with all he’s lost.

But no. It’s just a beard, one Crowley has grown tired of. He snaps his fingers, and he is perfectly shaven. Back to his old wiley self.

Abigail appears in the mirror. “Oh wow. It’s just gone now.”

Crowley turns to her in the doorway, patting his cheek. “Not a barber in Europe that could do this good a job.”

The joke doesn’t land as well as he expects. Abigail’s natural light dims, though it’s clear she’s trying not to look disappointed. “Nothing like a miracle, right?”

“You don’t like it?”

Abigail shrugs. “Not...really. Just a change.”

Crowley sighs, now understanding. “You’ve gone through a lot of those.”

 _Hot Wheels_ to football. Soho to Tadfield. Crowley to Aziraphale. She’s gone through more than the universe had any right to ask of her. A beard can’t just be a beard to Abigail. Even the silliest instance of symbolism stands.

“Are you okay, kiddo?”

Abigail smiles as best she can. “I’m fine dad. Renee’s gonna be here soon.”

“Ah yes,” Crowley smirks. “ _Renee_.”

“ _Dad_.”

“Captain of the football team.”

“Will you come downstairs soon?”

“Spend a lot of time together, don’t you and _Renee?_ ”

Abigail shoves him, and Crowley takes the opportunity to snatch her into his arms. She fights him, laughing as she demands for her release, but Crowley doesn’t let her go. He holds her closer, patting her back as she realizes this was never meant to be a prank.

“I’m fine dad. Really.”

“Don’t lie to me, sweetie.”

“M’not.”

Crowley hums, unconvinced. “You’ve grown up on me.”

Abigail leans into him more. “Couldn't help it. Are you okay?”

“You don’t need to be asking me that,” he assures her.

“I know how hard it was for dad,” Abigail mumbles. “And I wasn’t much help. So I wanna do better this time.”

Her regret physically pains him, just as it did in the bookshop. “You were so little. Please don’t blame yourself.”

Abigail says nothing, and slides out of his embrace. “She should be here any second. I’m heading down.”

Then she leaves. The only difference this time is she forgot to hand Crowley a book of prophecies.

 

 _Knock knock knock. Knocketty knocketty knock_.

Abigail runs to the kitchen door. She sees Renee’s face through the glass, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

“Hey.”

Renee smiles. “Hey?”

“I, uh...come in?”

Renee does. She’s been to Pulsifer cottage more times than she can count. This time, however, it’s different, mainly because of the ginger ghost staring at her down the hallway.

Abigail leads her friend to the living area. Standing rather awkwardly are her parents, both alive and well as opposed to yesterday morning. She turns her back to them, clasping her hands together nervously.

“So...don’t freak out.”

Renee laughs. “Listen, whatever’s going on...I’ve already gotten over the fact that your dad is fine. I don’t think there’s much else that can surprise me.”

Abigail winces. “ _Well…_ ”

Slowly, she unfolds her wings in their plane of existence, blocking everything but her parent’s own wings from view. She watches, absolutely terrified, as Renee’s features expand and slacken all at once.

“Oh,” Renee gapes. “So...s-so not ghosts then. Or spies.”

Abigail gives a wonky smile. “Nope. Uh...angels and demons, actually. God’s real, by the way.”

 

They’ve been at this for a few hours now, Renee with her hands pressed together in front of her face and Abigail picking anxiously at her cuticles. The kitchen table seemed like a perfect interrogation spot at first, but now Abigail really wishes they had chosen more comfier seats.

“Can I-? Renee starts “I’m sorry. I’m really trying to get this.”

“It’s okay,” Abigail assures her. “It’s...a lot.”

“This is more than a lot. T-T-This is the meaning of life and dark origin stories and why I woke up soaking wet in my bed that one night. This is...this is _you_. And I wanna understand. I really do.”

A butterfly flutters in Abigail's stomach. “What do you need help understanding?”

Renee thinks for a moment. “The resurrection thing. How is that possible?”

“Well, my ginger dad was an angel once. An archangel, actually.”

“And an archangel is, for someone who isn’t that religious…?”

“Basically a highly-ranked one. The supervisor or manager. CFO _maybe_. Uh, they made a lot of stuff like constellations. Anyway, my dad was the angel of healing, and his name was Raphael. That’s not who he is anymore. He likes to identify himself now as a completely different person, so we refer to Raphael as...not him.”

“A completely different person,” Renne parrots with a nod. “So you got Raphel’s powers...but also some demon powers too?”

“Yeah? Though demon powers aren’t that different than angel powers. The resurrection stuff is unique for sure. The only demon thing I think I really inherited is immunity from hellfire.”

“Wait. Fire doesn’t hurt you?”

“Well, just hellfire. Normal fire does.”

“Why would you not be immune to normal fire if hellfire is worse?”

Abigail thinks on that for a moment. “I don’t know.”

They fall into a familiar silence, the kind that comes when neither person in a conversation can think of what to say.

“So you really brought everyone in Tadfield back from the dead?” Renee asks.

Her eyes are wide with astonishment, though Abigail can hardly match her enthusiasm. Her eyes dart down to the table. “Yeah. I’m not really sure how. I just...after watching my family die, I...I couldn’t let it happen. I didn’t _want_ it to happen. So somehow I just...did it.”

Renee crosses her arms. Sympathy has softened her expression. “That sucks Abs. I can’t imagine...I mean, if my family died I would’ve rained fire on all those angelic assholes. I guess you’re too kind for that, though.”

A spark of tenderness ignites in Abigail's chest. “I was seven. I didn’t know how to be anything but kind. Now...now I’m not so sure what I would do if it were to ever happen again.”

“Do you think it will?”

“God, I hope not...I can’t go through that again.”

“I bet not.” Renee smiles kindly. “So, that day...you must’ve saved my life too.”

Abigail shrugs. “I probably did.”

“Well...thanks for that. I bet no one else has thanked you yet, and frankly you deserve the praise.”

Enough time has passed for Abigail to form opinions on herself. What she believes of herself, deep down in her soul, is that she is unworthy of the love she is given. All she has brought her family, brought Tadfield, brought the universe is a threat. She stands as the unsteady domino that threatens to undo the carefully placed trail the Almighty has set in place. Death has reminded her of this, the angels and demons have proven this, and as of now Abigail believes she will never be convinced otherwise.

She wonders how she is able to love Renee as much as she does. Her best friend, who is only ever there for her, who says such reassuring and validating things she does not deserve to hear. Perhaps part of Abigail had wanted to believe Renee would distance herself from her once the truth of her powers was revealed. But as it stands, her friend won’t be leaving her side anytime soon.

 

“I can’t believe I never noticed.”

Abigail groans. She grabs a throw pillow on the couch and shoves her face into it. “ _Dad_. Please nooooooo.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I can sense emotions! You’d think I would have felt it at some point or another.” He sits down beside her, chuckling to himself. “So, how long have you felt this way about her?”

The pillow finds its way into Abigail’s lap. “Uh...I don’t know. A little while now.”

“Uh huh.” Aziraphale takes a sip from the mug in his hands. It has angel wings for a handle. Apparently he used to have one just like it before the fire. Abigail wants to buy another one in black for Crowley for Father’s Day. “Are you going to tell her how you feel?”

“No,” she answers quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s so hard to talk to her normally now!”

Aziraphale nods. “I know how you feel. Though I guess in this case, I would be Renee. You see dear, I’m rather slow with things like this.”

Abigail grins. “I’ve noticed, dad.”

“Renee is a very nice girl, and no matter what happens I know she’ll still be your friend.”

Abigail just nods, staring off at the telly. They’ve both seen this episode of their favorite cooking show before, but it’s become a tradition every evening for them to watch it together, rerun or not. “Look at those knife cuts. I can never get anything to be the same size.”

“Oh, me neither. Cooking is a skill I never acquired.”

“And yet you’re an expert in sword fighting.”

“Wielding a kitchen knife is much different than wielding a sword!”

They share a bout of comfortable laugh, then go back to watching the host chop up some more vegetables. Abigail doesn’t remember what they’re making. It’s probably something with vegetables, given all the chopping.

“So settled on a wedding date yet?” she asks.

Aziraphale mouths an _O_ as he sighs. “It’s only been a day, pumpkin. A very long day, at that. You must be exhausted.”

“‘M never too exhausted to talk about weddings. So spring? Summer?”

“I’ll have to ask your father.” Aziraphale takes another sip. “I don’t think he’ll be too picky on a season. A color theme may be a bit more contentious.”

“You should let me make all the decisions then. It’ll make it so much easier.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I may consider that. You know how hard it was for aunt and uncle to plan their own wedding. Why did humans have to go and make their traditions so complicated?”

“Beats me,” Abigail sighs sleepily. “But I like weddings. The cake...and the outfits...and the dancing…”

Her eyelids are growing heavy. Aziraphale unfolds a blanket from behind him and places it overtop of her. Abigail leans against his side, falling asleep to the sound of onions sauteing in a pan.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to her temple. “Goodnight Abby.”

Abigail mumbles something even she can’t make out, and takes a long-needed rest.

 

The next morning, there are several text messages waiting for her.

 **Ren :D:** _so if god is real does that mean she has an answering machine for all my prayers or somehting?_

 **Ren :D:** _*something_

 **Ren :D:** _bc there’s some i’d like a response for XD_


	19. Dining at the Ritz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Good Old Fashion Lover Boy plays*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL IT IS SO EXPENSIVE TO EAT AT THE RITZ I WAS DOING RESEARCH FOR THIS CHAPTER AND I FELT MY WALLET CRYING

“So that’s it, isn’t it?”

Abigail purses her lips. “Yeah.”

Crowley nods, his reflection following his lead on his tombstone. “Pretty polished.”

“I miracled it to be that way,” Aziraphale confesses quietly. “I, well...I couldn’t bear the thought of anything you own being anything less than spotless.”

Crowley chortles, deep and hearty and yet with a twinge of sadness. He grabs his husband’s (fiance’s?) hand and swings it between them. “Parenthood kinda destroyed my usual attention to detail, but I appreciate the thought angel.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly. “Why did you want to see it again?”

Crowley shrugs. “Just curious. Not everyone gets to see their own tombstone.”

“Except spies,” Abigail remarks, suddenly understanding why Renee would suspect that to be a possibility. “Y’know I wondered if you were gonna pop out of the grave  _ Day of the Dead _ style.”

“That would’ve been cool, wouldn’t it?” Crowley grins.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Let’s head back for lunch. Abby, what do you feel like?”

They began the trek back, Abigail’s parents still hand in hand. Abigail hums as she conjures an answer. “I dunno. Whatever we’ve got lying around the pantry I guess.”

Imagine the kindling fondness in Crowley’s chest, mixed with the tragic reminder of his tombstone and his angel’s warm hand, come together in an explosion akin to a star dying. But where there was once death now exists an idea. An idea he’s so giddy over he can’t help but smile.

“How about we go out for lunch? Maybe take a drive to...Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps The Ritz?”

That same explosion goes off in Aziraphale’s own head. His eyes sparkle with nostalgia. “Oh, we haven’t been in ages.”

“Feels like ages anyway. So it’s a date?”

Abigail frowns. “Are you talking about that one place with the piano?”

“It’s not just ‘that one place,’” Aziraphale remarks, feigning offense. “It’s a part of your family history, dear.”

“No need to make it sound  _ that _ dramatic,” Crowley mumbles, embarrassed. “Pick up the pace, you two. If you want to get there before the rush, you better roof it to the car.”

 

There is no rush, possibly due to invisible angelic forces or equally demonic ones. Regardless, there is a mysterious reservation for their party once they arrive, and a set table waiting not three meters from the fabled piano.

Now don’t panic, dear reader, but I am going to set up another dollhouse scenario for you. The last one didn’t end too well, but I promise you no one will be harmed this chapter. I say this because no fine evening at The Ritz should be ruined by an untimely death. It may, however, be ruined for other reasons.

Abigail takes a seat opposite of her fathers. Her back is to the piano, while Crowley and Aziraphale are facing it. Aziraphale is on Abigail's left, sipping daintily at his glass of champagne, while Crowley is slouching on her right.

The most important thing to note her is the perfect view of the main dining area Abigail has as opposed to her fathers. And she is the only one without an alcoholic beverage. Even celestial entities abide by the legal age to drink.

“So this is the place, huh?” she asks, swirling some water around in her glass. That’s how the adults do it, right?

A whimsical expression passes over Aziraphale. “This is the place. We’ve been coming here ever since it opened.”

“1906 or somethin’ like that,” Crowley muses. “It was your father’s idea to start coming here. Nice wine, pleasing decor. I allowed myself to be dragged along.”

Abigail snorts. “I forget you two are old sometimes.”

“ _ Older _ ,” Crowley corrects. “Not old. We’re not old. We’re young.”

“My dear, when you’re assigned duty in the Garden of Eden, I believe that makes you old,” Aziraphale comments.

“You were there too!”

“I know I was, but at least I’m not pretending to be a spry young principality.”

Soups and salads are placed in front of them at orderly times. Abigail slurps down her french onion soup as if it filled the only oasis in the desert, and pushes her salad around with a fork until it’s taken away from her. Crowley scarfs down his courses, and given his genealogy Abigail is surprised he didn’t just unhinge his jaw and swallow everything whole.

In very Aziraphale fashion, he is the last to finish before their entree come.

They share a duck between the three of them, as well as a tangent-filled, pointless conversation. Pointless in that for once it’s not about ethereal threats or looming plots or escaping death. For once, two fathers and their young daughter get to share a fancy lunch together and talk about whatever they please.

Dare it be said, they get to act like a normal family.

“Think about it!” Crowley exclaims, catching himself on a laugh. “ _ Think _ about it! You’ve got all these  _ huge _ bones just  _ littering _ the planet, a-and no one-! No one can figure out where they came from!”

Aziraphale covers his mouth. It’s a miracle (wink) he doesn’t joke on his mouthful. “But they’ve been pretty good at coming up with an explanation,” he says after swallowing. “The Big Bang is such a creative idea.”

“Oh come on, give them a break,” Abigail argues, the only advocate for the human race. “It’s not like anyone’s old enough to remember the  _ beginning of creation _ like you guys. Besides,  _ I _ think it’s better they never get the joke and keep making dinosaur movies. Jurassic Park? A classic.”

“Oh sweetie,” Crowley sighs, “It’s gone over your head too.”

Abigail just ignores them, smirking as she goes in for another serving of duck. She stabs a big chunk onto the end of her fork and lifts it up to her mouth.

Here’s where the dollhouse arrangement becomes important.

Directly across the way from her is a man clad in a crisp, grey suit. A silky white scarf drapes around his neck like a noose, but the smile across his face is even tighter.

Abigail locks eyes with Gabriel and drops her fork.

Her dads jump in their seats, their parental radars going off.

“Abby? Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks.

Gabriel puts a finger to his lips. Abigail gets the memo. She hunches over in her seat, clutching her stomach. “I, uh, r-really gotta use the loo. S’cuse me.”

She stands, hastily making her way towards Gabriel, hoping her fathers will catch on without having to be told. But as she makes her way to the restroom, Gabriel has vanished.

 

Abigail still goes to use the loo. A scare such as that is enough to make anyone have to go.

The man with the purple eyes. The man who has haunted her dreams for years. The man who was there when her father was murdered by demons (the second time around). If Gabriel is here, he must be plotting.

And lunch was going so well.

Abigail’s hands are shaking as she washes them. It’s making it rather hard to lather up, and the water is taking its sweet time to get warm. Her naive impulse is to go home. She wants to be wrapped up safe underneath her covers, or on the couch watching telly with Aziraphale, or on a drive with Crowley, or knitting baby onesies with Anathema, or brainstorming with Newt, or playing Mario with Hastur (who has gotten quite good at it over the years).

All Abigail wants is to be anywhere but here.

Then Gabriel materializes behind her, and it’s clear she won’t be going home anytime soon.

It’s a one-staller, meaning Abigail can’t rely on a stranger walking in and saving her. The door is locked, her hands are wet, and there’s an archangel who wants her dead breathing the same air as her.

“How was lunch?” Gabriel asks.

Abigail takes a deep breath. She thinks of what her fathers would do, and acts accordingly.

“Really nice actually,” she responds, turning on her heels. She flicks the water off her hands, turning Gabriel’s coat into a soapy Jackson Pollock painting. “Thanks for ruining it.”

Gabriel scrunches his nose, almost amusingly. “I haven’t come here to ruin anything, actually. Can’t I just come on my own accord to talk?”

Abigail glares, saying nothing. He doesn’t deserve a word form her.

Gabriel continues anyway, though he is peeved she didn’t take the bait. He rather likes monologuing. “Look, the last time we met, things got...a little bit  _ out of hand.  _ I think that’s a pretty fair assessment, don’t you think?”

Abigail shrugs. She wipes her hands on her back pockets, and leaves them there. She’s played this game before, and last time she won.

“I know. Heaven and hell took things too far. But we’ve learned our lesson. We can’t try to force Armageddon to happen when it clearly doesn’t want to. So for teaching us that lesson, I thought I’d return the favor. Share...some intel of my own, if you will.”

Abigail throws her hands back out, gripping her hellfire lighter tightly in her dominant hand. The flames dance dangerously close to Gabriel’s face, but he grabs her wrist before any damage can be done.

His pupils shrivel, but his eyes widen. “Were you really going to kill me?”

Abigail tries to pull herself free. Archangels have surprisingly strong grips. Well, maybe not that surprising in hindsight.

Gabriel flicks the lighter closed, and leans in close. “Would you have brought me back if you did?”

Abigail opens her mouth with an answer she is sure of, then hesitates. She starts shaking again, the conflict quickly tearing her apart. Gabriel releases her, and she stumbles backwards.

“Anyway, I thought you’d like to know your pregnant human friend or whatever is gonna die in childbirth. The baby might too, I don’t know. I can only sense so much beforehand. Now we’re even, I’d say. So I’m gonna go now but, ah...you think over what you want to do with that information. Also, put more fluid in that lighter.”

Then he vanishes for a second time. The water is finally running hot.

 

Another day, another round of back pain. That’s how Anathema views pregnancy. Endless bouts in a wrestling ring taking a folding chair to the spine.

The cravings are honestly a bonus, though. An excuse to eat whatever the hell she wants when she wants. Food has never tasted so good.

She eases herself onto her bed, needing a break from organizing her garment drawer. What an exciting life she lives as a pregnant woman. Small chores and bountiful naps.

A nap is exactly what she could do with right now. She undoes the small bun atop her head and flicks the hairband somewhere on the floor. The pillow gives way like butter beneath her skull, her eyes drooping shut like molasses sliding down a pan.

Just before she falls under, there’s a knock on her bedroom door. She groans, so close to a blissful sleep. “Come in.”

The door cracks open. Abigail peeks inside, rather timidly.

Anathema sits up as best she can. “Hey Abby. What do you need?”

Abigail shuts the door softly, saying nothing. Then she crawls down in the spot next to Anathema and wraps her arms around her aunt.

“Oh. Okay.” Anathema holds her back, not experienced enough to go into parent mode yet. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Abigail just shakes her head, burying her face in Anathema’s side.

“Did lunch go okay? Something wrong with Renee?”

Again, Abigail shakes her head. It seems as if she won’t be talking. Helpless, Anathema pats her head, hoping to coax an answer out of her if she keeps asking questions. Abigail hardly asks like this. Never would be an even better word to use instead.

“Did your dads have a fight? Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Once again, Abigail shakes her head. Before Anathema can think of any other possible explanations, she whispers tearfully, “I’m sorry.”

There’s something haunting in her tone, something knowing. It sends a shiver down Anathema’s aching spine.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Anathema assures her, stroking Abigail’s hair. “Look, whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to tell me why you’re upset, but I’ll listen if you want to.”

 Abigail doesn't shake her head this time. She just lays there, still and silent. A few minutes pass before she slides off the bed and stands. “Sorry for bothering you. Please don’t...don’t tell anyone about this?”

“O-Of course.” Anathema tries to sit up just a little bit higher, but her baby bump won’t allow it. “If that’s what you want.”

Her niece nods, eyes glossing over, and leaves just as quickly as she came.


	20. Game On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Mario music plays* Literally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so tempted to title this chapter "The Game is On" bc I'm still in a Sherlock mood. Libby I'm so excited for our watch party tomorrow. I bought the good popcorn too :D
> 
> Thank you all for the support, and for 12,000+ hits!! That's insane seriously love you all <3 We're reaching (as Doctor Strange would call it) the endgame, starting after I'd say the next chapter, and I'm so excited for whats to come :)

Considering his countless unforgivable transgressions as a demon, Hastur’s time under house arrest is fairly lax. The most he has ever had to do around the house is keep to himself and not kill anyone. Occasionally there is a child in need of a sandwich or a playmate, and on some rare occasions there have been times he has joined the Ineffable Family for dinner.

In other words, his sentencing does not fit his punishments all that much. Except, of course, for the times he plays Abigail’s video games.

He’s been maxing his limited patience to the fullest with a particular game: that blasted plummer man known as Mario. Hastur has made it all the way to the final world all on his own, and he’s one level away from the final boss. All he has to do is get past this particularly difficult mini boss and he’s scott free.

By this point, he’s memorized the pattern. Run, jump, duck, jump again, repeat two more times. The stage is built for the battle to take place in excruciatingly close proximity, meaning every wrong move he makes puts him into immediate danger. He has to be precise, and above all diligent.

The pattern only has to be completed one last time. Hastur sits on the edge of the sofa, glued in, every fiber of his being dedicated to finishing this once and for all.

He runs, jumps, ducks too soon, and is killed.

The level fades to black. Hastur is left seething in frozen fury. His hands start to smoke, and unconsciously he melts the controller into unsalvageable piles of goop.

Someone plops down beside him. “You’re playing without me.”

Hastur miracles the controller back into one piece, Abigail reigniting his spark of determination. “This is personal. That damn Koopa is gonna get it.”

She doesn’t laugh. Normally Abigail gets a kick out of him swearing, more so if Aziraphale is in the room. The principality’s reactions are priceless. Something is wrong.

Hastur starts the level pack up again. “What happened?”

Abigail jumps. “Nothing happened.”

“Well, something did because the static’s acting up again.”

Abigail looks above his head where the halo would be. “Sorry.”

Hastur passes the first quarter of the level with ease, his fingers flying along the controller. “So what did Gabriel say to you?”

Abigail takes a deep breath, drawing her knees to her chest. Mud from her shoes rubs off on the cushions. “Is that what’s repeating?”

The two of them have long since figured out the halo’s many properties, mostly in an effort to keep it from bothering Hastur on a daily basis. “He showed up at lunch I’m guessing?”

She nods out of the corner of his eye.

Hastur reaches the level’s checkpoint. The cheery music mocks him. “Wot does he want?”

“ _ Nothing _ ,” she says in a hushed whisper. The matter clearly terrifies her. Hastur’s hands flare up for an entirely different reason. The controller is still usable, so he continues on. He’s never been one for deep conversations anyway.

“Clearly he wants  _ something _ . Wot else did he say?”

Abigail doesn’t speak for a long while. Enough time passes for him to encounter the mini boss again. Hastur readies himself and runs in, Mario’s hat flapping in the wind.

“H-He told me Auntie Them was gonna die.”

Hastur stops running. Mario takes a bolt of something purple and magical to the chest, dying. “He could be lying.”

Abigail gives him a desperate look. “Do you think he is?”

The level starts over again. Hastur takes a moment to pop his knuckles. “Well, I don’t trust angels by nature.  _ Especially _ archangels. Egotistical snobs, that’s wot they are.”

It earns a small smile from Abigail. “Hey, I’m part archangel.”

He picks back up the controller, ready for another go. “And you’re barely tolerable.”

She huffs a laugh through her nose, then saddens. “So he was lying.”

“Most likely.”

“But there’s a chance he couldn’t have?”

He squashes an enemy under his boots. “Depends on wot his agenda is. And he does have one.”

Abigail nods, frowning. She keeps nodding, caught in a loop.

“You told your dads yet?” Hastur asks.

She shakes her head once and the cycle ends.

“Why not?”

He makes it back to the boss without a word added to their conversation, and what a true downer it is. It makes beating this level so trivial now, and Hastur feels like a fool for getting so worked up before. But don’t tell anyone that. He still has a reputation to uphold.

“They seem...happy,” Abigail confesses quietly. “At lunch yesterday, they talked of Ancient Rome and Shakespeare and dinosaur bones...and they were laughing so much. I’ve never seen them so happy before. I-If I tell them...it’s just gonna remind them how terrible their lives are.”

Hastur scoffs. “How are their lives terrible? They’re living it up in this quaint little cottage with you and their human friends. Goin’ out to eat and driving around town like nothin’s wrong.”

Abigail draws herself into a tighter ball. “But it hasn’t always been like that. You know that...this is the first time in a while they haven’t been lonely...and all this good stuff just feels so...so...”

She can’t find the right word. It somehow finds its way onto Hastur’s tongue.

“Temporary.”

Abigail turns to him. “And that’s my fault.”

Hastur rolls his eyes. “No more you’re fault than those upstairs and below. Or your parents for that matter” He’s made it through the boss’ pattern twice now. Only one more round to go. “You didn’t choose to go against the Divine Plan and piss off every angel and demon in existence. It’s all just sort of...carried over to you.”

He makes the last jump, squashes the boss’ head in, and triumphant music fills the living room. All that work, and he hardly feels like jumping for joy.

“So what do I do?” Abigail asks. “Do I...do I tell them?”

Hastur sets the controller aside and stretches. “Might as well _ -Ahh _ . They need to know what’s comin’.”

“What about Auntie?”

He thinks on it. “That’s for you to decide. Could just be a fake warning, after all. I dunno wot happens if you try to save someone who doesn’t need saving. Don’t even know if you can.”

Abigail sets her feet back onto the carpet. Hastur discreetly miracles away the residue on the cushions.

“So are you gonna tell them?”

She doesn’t look at him. “Maybe.”

There’s a shift in the universe, one only Hastur seems to feel. He nods, mentally preparing for what’s to come. Though he doubts anyone will be ready, even him. “‘Kay then. I’ll keep my mouth shut until then.”

Still not looking at him, Abigail walks out of the room. Alone and free to continue, Hastur picks up the controller and presses the power button. The screen cuts abruptly to black.

 

Since Adam has left Tadfield, the weather has been far less pleasant. Long summers that cross over into fall, bringing winter to an abrupt start.

This winter has decided to start with a blizzard.

Renee takes one look out the window and declares, “I’m gonna call my mom.”

Crowley takes a look himself. “Yeeeahh, looks like you’re sleepin’ over tonight, kiddo.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at Abigail when Renee isn’t watching. His daughter scowls, cheeks rosy despite not being bitten by the cold. Crowley saunters out of the kitchen laughing, leaving the two to settle the arrangements of the evening.

The change in weather does come as a bit of a surprise, but it takes more than a few snowflakes to scare Crowley. Given he witnessed the whole escapade with Noah’s Arc, he should be a great deal more concerned. Instead, he remains oblivious and in high spirits.

He finds Aziraphale gazing out an upstairs window, a piping hot mug of something in his hands. His angel’s reflection smile as he approaches. “I take it Renee will be staying the night?”

Crowley wraps his arms around his middle from behind, tucking his head into his fiance’s shoulder. “Not like she can anywhere in this shitstorm. I mean that almost literally.”

Aziraphale chuckles. He takes a sip from his angel wing mug. Upon a quick waft, it appears to be cocoa. “It’s rather lovely, the snowfall. So peaceful and delicate.”

“‘M just glad I don’t have to shovel it. Miracles are  _ amazzzzing _ .”

“They are indeed.” His angel tilts his head, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple that makes the demon melt. “If it weren’t so dreadful outside, I think a winter wedding would be quite lovely.”

“You mean minus the chill and frostbite?”

“I just picture the flakes whisking gently past the altar, a few catching in your hair…”

He trails off, lost in his own fantasy. He’s taken Crowley with him, and suddenly the cold-blooded demon doesn’t mind risking hypothermia for such a romantic setting. It’s beyond him how once spring rolls around, they’ll actually  _ be _ married. And while the tradition can hardly encapsulate their history, Crowley isn’t ashamed to admit he’s giddy to be hitched.

“Shouldn’t be snowin’ this much.”

Crowley looks behind him, giving Hastur a glare. “Climate change, my dude. The humans have gone and mucked up their one and only planet.”

Hastur shakes his head, glaring at the sky. “No...this isn’t the work of any humans. Can’t be.”

Then he trudges off to lurk elsewhere. He’s quite good at lurking. No wonder he was ever promoted to be a duke.

Aziraphale frowns. “What do you think he meant by that?”

Crowley shrugs. “Hasn’t seen a blizzard in a while, I guess. Ignore him.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do these past few years.” They both laugh, settling back into their own private bliss. “How long do you think he’ll be staying here?”

“At this point, I think that’s up to Abby. Not like he’s much of a threat anymore. If hell won’t take him back, maybe we can convince him to buy his own slice of land. Give us some space.”

“I do think Abby would miss him, though,” Aziraphale confesses.

“Not sayin’ she can’t visit him,” Crowley adds. “I just don’t think he needs to be kept an eye on anymore. Domestic life has zapped the evilness out of him.”

“Or most of it. That’s all we can really ask for.” Aziraphale goes to take another sip, then stops. “Do you think...I mean, it has been a while…”

Crowley blinks. “What?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about it, but...heaven and hell...they’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Mm’yeah,” Crowley mumbles. “Have for a while now.”

“And they were quiet once before, and then...you know.”

“I do know, but I doubt they’ll try anything again. The second Armageddon flopped so spectacularly they should be too embarrassed to take up arms again.”

Aziraphale hums. “We can only hope.”

Crowley holds him tighter. “And hope we will. Got...too much to lose…”

He tries to mutter that last bit into Aziraphale’s shoulder, but the angel catches it all. Aziraphale smiles sweetly. “And you won’t lose any of it. Neither of us will.”

“How have you stayed so damn optimistic through all this?”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes and arches his brows, shrugging through his expression. “I wasn’t for a while...but it’s easier when I’ve got a wily old serpent reminding me of all the good I’ve got.”

Crowley blushes. “I’m glad I’ve been enough to a nuisance to remind you.”

Aziraphale sighs, in an  _ Oh Please _ kind of way, but both of them know what the other is trying to say. Amazing how they still struggle to say exactly what’s on their mind.

Some things never change, but sometimes they don’t need to.

 

The power went out about two hours ago, and Renee has been losing at Monopoly for just around that same amount of time.

“Abs, I swear to God if you don’t land on my property-”

Abigail plops her thimble on Reading Railroad, her own property.

“Nooooo! I need the moooooney!”

“You shouldn’t have bought the brown ones!” Abigail argues.

“Everyone always lands on the brown ones!”

“Well not everyone, ‘cause then you wouldn’t be losing,” she smirks. “Even my uncle is beating you.”

“Yeah, I’m a bit surprised by that honestly,” Newt admits. He’s rolling in Monopoly dough. Renee is losing her mind.

Anathema grabs the dice and swirls them around in her hand. Renee has always thought her to be a bit mysterious, but seeing her blow on her dice like a professional gambler in Vegas only solidifies her impression of her. “Be doubles. Be doubles. Be doubles.”

She rolls a pair of fives. Renee nearly screams.

“Out of jail, suckers!” Anathema plucks her tiny terrier out of prison with a smug grin on her face.

Then that grin vanishes. Anathema hunches over, hand flying to her stomach. She’s sweating buckets in an instant, gritting her teeth.

Newt is at her side, holding her carefully by the shoulders. “Oh my God what’s wrong? Ana? Babe?”

Anathema hisses, trying to suck in a decent breath. “Oh fuck...I think the baby’s coming.”

Newt’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “ _ Now?! _ ”

“Yes! I’m pretty sure right  _ NOW! _ ” Anathema screams, the pain obviously increasing. She struggles to rise onto her feet, Newt panicking too much to be of any real help. Though no one can tell because she’s wearing a long skirt, she says, “My water just broke. My water just broke.  _ Newt _ .”

“Uhh-”

“Newt, this baby is coming. This baby is coming and I need to lay down somewhere.”

“Okay. Okay.” He fixes his glasses, almost shoving them directly into his skull. “Help. I need-HELP!”

There’s a commotion, and possible the sound of glass breaking, right before a very confused and  _ very _ concerned angel and demon stumble to the bottom of the stairs. “What’s happening?” Aziraphale asks.

Another contraction hits. Anathema cries out, “BABY!”

“ _ BABY?! _ ” The celestials shriek.

“I need to get her upstairs!” Newt announces. “C-Can you use a miracle o-or do some-?”

In a flustered rush, Crowley snaps his fingers and the four of them disappear. Renee, who has just been watching all the chaos unfold, is left alone with a disheveled Monopoly board.

It’s when the shock starts to wear off she realizes Abigail has fled the room a long time ago.


	21. Damned If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every end has a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I wasn’t expecting to love Sherlock s4 as much as I did. Now I’m left with a Mary-shaped hole in my heart 💔
> 
> TW for childbirth. Nothing is graphic but it still gets pretty intense. Stay safe buds <3

Anathema’s screams are raw and ragged, her tiny bundle of joy tearing her apart from the inside. Her pain is palpable, in a way that puts Aziraphale’s supernatural knack for sensing emotions to shame. She is a woman on her deathbed. Or at least, that is how it seems.

They’ve miracled her onto her queen bed, as well as the needed supplies. Not all the hospital doo-dads that blink and go  _ beep _ , but the wash clothes and a bowl of warm water.

“Can’t you take me to a damn hospital?” the witch growls. The breathing exercises are doing nothing. Aziraphale miracles a pair of blue latex gloves onto his hands.

“My dear, you are going to give birth any second now. Traveling that far a distance uncorporeal is bound to be harmful to the baby’s health.”

“Have y-you delivered baby’s before?” Newt asks fretfully. He’s holding his wife’s hand, his fingers turning purple. He’s also doing a considerable amount of swaying on his feet. A landing of pillows are miracled behind him.

“Well, I was present at the birth of Christ, but I didn’t do the delivering per say…”

Black latex clothes appear on Crowley’s hands. “I have.”

Aziraphale starts. “Wh-?  _ When? _ ”

“On Noah’s arc. There was a pregnant lady and...well, she had other kids ‘n- ”

The angel beams. “You  _ did _ save all those children. I thought there were too many on the ship to be Noah’s.”

Crowley’s face would flush under different circumstances. “Not nearly enough. That’s not the point. I need you to keep up your breathing exercises Anathema. Breathe in...breathe out.”

Anathema sucks in a wild breath, and pushes it out with a wail. Newt pales. Crowley sweats. The demon looks at Aziraphale, his gaze electric.

Something is wrong, and they can both sense it.

But they’ll carry on, because there’s nothing else they can do.

“Be my assistant?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale nods. “I’m at your command, doctor.”

 

It’s never a good sign to hear someone crying behind a locked door.

Renee stands outside Abigail’s bedroom, hand raised to knock. Yet, she is not knocking. She’s trying to piece together the separate commotions in the cottage, because surely there must be a link.

Nothing tragic can happen to Anathema if Abigail has a say in it. For what reason would Abigail have any reason to fear her aunt dying in childbirth?

Unless Abigail is crying for a different reason. Perhaps the suddenness of it all has upset her. In a few minutes, she may walk out of her room puffy-eyed but otherwise okay.

The answer seems obvious, in the way a trivia question is after it’s been answered for you. May as well ask for the answer then. Renee knocks gently. “Abby? Abs?”

A sob is cut off by a violent hiccup. “N-Not now, Ren. Please.”

“What’s wrong?”

There’s no response, safe for a few muffled sniffles.

“C’mon, you’re scaring me,” Renee confesses. “I’ve never heard you cry so hard in your life.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me.”

A beat of silence passes, one so perfectly timed Abigail must have been given a cue to start crying again. Renee crosses her arms with a meek huff. Only two inches of wood stands between her and her best friend, and she’s stuck helplessly on the outside.

The floorboards creak as Hastur trudges down the hallway. Renee stands to attention on instinct, still taken aback by how inhuman the demon appears. Though she is curious whether the toad on his head has its own consciousness.

Hastur pays her no mind, kneeling onto the floor. He pulls a small gaming console out of his breast pocket, and slides it through the crack under the door. A shadow creeps out onto the other side, then retreats.

The demon stands, a smug expression now on his gnarled face. Renee swears she can feel some kind of insect swarm crawling up her back. She inches away from him.

At the same rate the sun orbits around the earth, the door is opened. Abigail peers at them with bleary eyes, the console glowing in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

Renee smiles gratefully. “Don’t be.”

“No, I-” Abigail croaks, wincing. Fresh tears spring to her eyes. “I’m so  _ sorry _ . T-This is all my fault.”

Renee puts a hand on her forearm. “Okay. Stop saying generic movie lines and tell us what’s wrong. We can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on.”

Abigail looks guiltily at Hastur. “You think the angels are causing the blizzard?”

“Could be my old lot,” he answers casually. None of this seems to be phasing him, as if he had been anticipating this exact conversation. “It ain’t natural, whoever’s doin’ it.”

Abigail nods. She opens the door further, then retreats to her bed. Renee takes this as an invitation to sit next to her, and watches as Abigail boots up a game to play.

Hastur sits on her other side. “You’re going to save her.”

Abigail nods, opening up her save file. “I...I can’t just let her die.”

“Sometimes people have to die,” he responds calmly.

“Not if I have a say in it.”

Hastur gives her a chilling look. “That is a dangerous way of thinking, Abigail.”

The wind outside howls in agreement. Abigail pauses her game, right before she reaches a checkpoint. “It’s the only way I’ve been able to think...it’s what I  _ do _ .No one ever told me the rules. No one has ever told me  _ no _ .”

“Maybe this is supposed to be your wake-up call.”

Abigail says nothing to this. She unpauses her game and continues onward.

Renee scoots near to her, pretending to only want a better look of the game. “I’m...guessing your aunt’s about to die. And you knew she was going to.”

A power-up appears on a ledge. Abigail jumps up and grabs it without hesitation. “Yeah…”

“And saving her would be bad...because that’s what the angels and demons want you to do?”

Abigail unleashes a barrage of fireballs upon her digital enemies.. “Y-You’re really good at guessing.”

Renee shrugs. “I’ve just been paying attention...I’m sorry. That you have to make a decision like this.”

Her friend frowns, brows knitting tightly together. “I just don’t know what they’re going to  _ do _ . I don’t see how saving Auntie does anything for them.”

“They’ll make the situation into anything they want to,” Hastur reminds her.

Suddenly furious, Abigail pauses her game and slams the console into her lap. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?! Why does it have to be my family?! Why do they have to...”

She sounds words away from sobbing again, and has to silence herself. Renee pats her back in an awkward attempt to soothe her.

“It’s all because of me,” Abigail mumbles, answering her own question. “It’s my fault. Because I won’t s-stop saving people. Because I’m so  _ selfish _ , a-and I don’t have any right to be.”

It’s clear that someone needs to protest against what she’s just said, but Renee finds herself too horrified to do so. She never pictured her Abigail, her lovely, brave, cheerful Abigail, to speak so defiantly against herself. Her heart breaks upon the realization, and yearns to undo years of torment she has no power to reverse.

In spite of this, she is not the one who reacts first.

“If you’re selfish for wanting to protect your family,” Hastur speaks, “then you have every right to be.”

Abigail shuts her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Hastur, _ please _ .”

“No. We’ve both thought about this wrong. For Satan’s sake, you’re a child. You haven’t lived even a  _ fraction _ of my lifetime. And you’ve lost far more than you ever should have. Be  _ bitter _ . Be  _ angry _ . You have the right to. Say no to  _ ‘em _ .”

Abigail breaks down further, trembling. “I  _ can’t _ . I-I...I know I have to let Auntie-”

“No. You save her. You save your aunt and take on heaven and hell. Be selfish, just one last time, because you can beat them. You can flip off both sides and earn the happy ending you deserve.”

“But they’ll-The rules-”

“What rules? You don’t got any to follow. No one ever gave you ‘em. You’ve got one last chance to throw ‘em all for a loop, and get away with whatever you want. And this time, they’ll finally take a hint.”

Abigail tries to tune him out. She unpauses her game, and is immediately struck by an enemy. Her power-up disappears. She turns off the game. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t. But I just realized what Gabriel’s tryin’ to get you to do. Who’s the one person who would be most pissed off by you messin’ with the natural order of life and death?”

Some trivia questions have such obvious answers they can be overlooked, until often repeated out loud.

Abigail only has to think for a second on what the answer is. “ _ Death _ .”

Hastur grins. “And you’ve been pissin’ him off for a while now. He’s just been pissed off at the wrong person.”

Abigail rises, the console landing with a  _ thud _ on the carpet below. She’s gaping, mind bursting with glorious revelation after glorious revelation. “Oh shit. Oh  _ shit!  _ Hastur! D-Do you know-? I mean-! I can fix  _ everything! _ ”

Renee, who is completely lost, just nods. “That’s good.”

Abigail turns towards her so fast she risks the chance of experiencing whiplash. “Oh my God Renee. Renee. Renee.”

“Yeah?”

“I can save her. I can save everyone.”

“That’s really good. But how?”

“Uh,” Abigail stammers. “I don’t know. But I can. I just need to...well, I just gotta think…”

And think she does. She paces around her room, flashes of various emotions passing over her face. Anathema’s scream echo into the room. Whatever Abigail is planning, she needs to put it into action soon.

Abigail snaps her fingers, in such a dorky and charming way Renee’s stomach flips. “Okay! Okay, so. So so so angels. Angels and demons. They fucked with the weather. That means they have to be watching us or something, right? I think they’re gonna pay us another visit. So you gotta hide.”

Renee stands. “O-Okay. Okay, where?”

“Basement. Just keep quiet. They’re not that smart.”

Hastur chuckles. Abigail wheels around to him.

“You hide with her. They may notice you’re missing, or they won’t. We’ll have to hope they don’t, but keep her safe please.”

He just smiles, eyes twinkling with pride.

Abigail turns back to Renee. “Look, whatever happens...No, let me start over. Two things. One, in case shit goes sideways, I really like you. Second, Tadfield is in danger. I don’t know how you’re gonna do it, but I need you to get the people out of town. You can take my dad’s car, o-or...or just do something. No pressure if you can’t. I mean, there’s a blizzard going on. But I don’t think it’ll be this bad for long. Just do your best.”

Everything Abigail is saying seems incredibly important, but unfortunately Renee can’t seem to get past, “Y-You like me?”

Abigail freezes, her cheeks as red as her hair. “Uh, y-yeah. Y’know, in case I die or something, I thought I’d let you know. So you can mourn me harder or whatever.”

Renee stares at her, dumbfounded. “You like me.”

The softest smile stretches across Abigail's face. “A lot.”

Something explodes in Renee’s chest. Her insides flare up and burn in a fantastical fireworks display. “Oh. Okay. Cool. Me too. B-But to you! I like you…too.”

Something disk-shape starts glowing out of nowhere atop Hastur;s head, then goes out with a loud  _ pop _ . The demon clutches his ears, hissing.

“That’s...really good to know,” Abigail whispers, breathless. “Um...if we don’t die, c-can I kiss you?”

Renee smirks. “Why not just kiss me now?”

“Something really bad might happen,” Abigail admits, “and I’m gonna need something else to keep me going. Believe me. I want to kiss you really bad right now, but…”

Renee smiles, disappointed but always so understanding. She tries to be anyway. “Then be ready for the best kiss ever when you get back.”

It won’t be that great, given neither of them has ever kissed anyone before, and their combined lack of experience is bound to end in disaster. A wonderful, splendid disaster.

Abigail extends her arms and pulls her in for a most bittersweet hug history has ever known.

“Please come back,” Renee whispers, unable to hide how scared she is.

“I will. I promise. Now hide.”

 

Childbirth is no pretty sight, and thus the details will be spared.

Picture a gruesome massacre. Any kind will do. That’s the kind of state Anathema’s bedroom is currently in.

“One last push!” Crowley orders, voice strained. He is beyond panicked, holding on by the flimsiest thread. “C’mon Anathema. You’re almost there. Just one more!”

For Anathema, deathly white and shaking with a fury, the task seems too much to ask for. Her life is draining away, for reasons no one has the power to change, yet she manages one last frantic push, with a cry that pierces the very heavens.

And following her declaration of death comes a tiny wail.

Crowley cradles the newborn baby for just a moment, marveling over his chubby limbs and soft, dark curls. Then he quickly passes him off to Aziraphale, who has a warm towel prepped and ready. “Get some scissors. I’ll help you cut the cord.”

The angel whisks the baby aside, and Crowley rushes back to Anathema’s aid. He pushes Newt away from her, desperate to find a pulse. He checks her wrist. Nothing. He puts his fingers to her neck. Nada.

He steps back, numb, yet seething. Newt takes his place, brushing Anathema’s hair out of her face futility. “Ana. Anthema. Darling, _ please _ . Please you can’t...Oh  _ God _ .”

The ex-witch hunter collapses on top of her, his ancestors cheering as he weeps over the kindest witch the world has ever known. A witch who has taken far too soon at too tragic a time. As would have any time at all.

Crowley retreats to his fiance’s side quietly. The baby is whimpering now, losing steam. Aziraphale hands the demon a pair of medical scissors, eyes glossed over. “Crowley. The cord.”

He takes the scissors and frees the son from his mother. Aziraphale makes quick work of cleaning the baby and swaddling him up. His parents are unable to comfort him, so once again the angel and the demon are made godfathers.

The door is thrown open and Abigail comes running in. “Dads! Freeze time!  _ Now! _ ”

Crowley is slow on the draw. So is Aziraphale. Abigail has enough time to witness the scene taking place before the three of them are thrust to the heavens, four counting the newborn.

Pearly white sands span out infinity in all directions. The clear blue sky above them spans even further, without a flake of snow to be seen.

The baby coos in Aziraphale’s arms. Abigail shakes in Crowley’s.

“I can save her.”

“I know you can,” Crowley shushes her. “It’s still scary. It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not.” She shoves herself free, suddenly defiant. “I didn’t tell you two something, and I should have. But I just...couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

The two just stare at her, still too overwhelmed to react. Delivering a baby takes the devil out of you, even if you have infinite stamina.

“When w-we went to the Ritz that one time for lunch… Abigail struggles, “Gabriel was there. He cornered me in the bathroom, and told me Auntie was going to die.”

A great ball of anger flares in Crowley’s chest. “Oh sweetie-”

“I think he’s got something to do with the weather, and Auntie suddenly going into labor. He wants me to save her, and when I do...something bad is gonna happen. But I’m going to save her anyway, and I need you two to be ready.”

So many words have been spoken and all of them are baffling. Aziraphale adjusts the baby in his arms. “What are you planning? Do you have a plan?”

Abigail shrugs. “Sorta. Just...trust me. Hastur and I figured it out. What their plan was. They want me to piss off Death.”

“Language,” the fathers say in tandem.

“And I have for a while now. This is the final straw. It’s gotta be. All I gotta do is talk Death down, tell him what’s been happening, and I can save Tadfield. Or the world. Whatever he’s gonna come after. But the angels and demons probably have their own agenda, so just...I don’t know. Be careful. Don’t die.”

“That’s…” Crowley stammers. “Okay, slow down sweetie. That’s a lot to take in-”

“I know it is,” Abigail acknowledges with a knowing smile. “Just trust me. I can do this.”

“W-We know you can dear,” Aziraphale breaks in. “But this all sounds dangerous-”

“I know, but we’ll do it together! No one will be able to stop us. This is gonna work.” She glances around her, thinking. “I think I can undo this myself.”

“Abby-” Crowley tries to intervene.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” she continues, so certain of herself. “When I revive Auntie, get ready for whatever comes next.”

“Wait, let’s think this through a bit-!” Aziraphale starts.

“It’ll be okay!” Abigail swears, and she unfreezes time.

The real world forms around them. Crowley has milliseconds to stop his daughter, to keep her from charging into a final battle they are hilariously not ready for.

But he’s halfway across the room, and Abigail has already put a hand to Amathena’s forehead.

What happens next takes place at a speed faster than light. I’ll slow it down for you reader, for your convenience. Picture everyone moving in slow motion, the way they do in the movies, but with smoother effects.

Anathema’s life is returned to her. The only evidence of this is the beating of her heart and the fluttering of her soul. Newt is still on top of her as two demons materialize behind them, apprehending the couple, and vanish.

Crowley is in midair, launching towards Abigail when he too is apprehended. However, he and Aziraphale are grabbed by angels, and too vanish. The baby is taken with them.

By the time Abigail is finished blinking, she is the only one left in the room.


	22. Deal’s a Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orders are given, property is destroyed, and a deal is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Good Omens for getting me back into Doctor Who and reminding me how happy that show makes me. Honestly I finish every episode with a big ol’ smile on my face :) EXCEPT FOR DOOMSDAY
> 
> We’re really getting into the thick of it now folks. The next two chapters or so will be the climax, and there will be a few more chapters after to wrap the story up. Thank you so much for sticking around all this time and for all the lovely support!!!

Abigail flies down the stairs, throws open the door to the basement, and yells, “I FUCKED UP.”

Hastur and Renee are standing around rather idly. Now, however, they’re standing much more alert.

“How’d you fuck up?” Renee asks.

“Oh good. You’re still here.” Abigail pulls her into a hug with no explanation, but quickly follows up with one. “Forget everything I said about saving Tadfield or whatever, _because I don’t know what’s going on_.”

“O-Okay,” Renee stutters, patting her back. “What happened? Are you alright? How’s the baby?”

“I don’t _know!_ ” Abigail exclaims, pulling away. “I saved my aunt, then everyone just-just-! _Disappeared!_ ”

“Disappeared? Disappeared how?”

“Just _vanished!_ And I don’t know where they are or where they went. _If_ they went, or if they were taken. Or if they were taken at all or...or dead-”

“If they were dead, you’d know,” Hastur cuts in. “Think either side’s gonna kill your family without any theatrics?”

“So where _are_ they?” she pleads, her hysteria mounting.

Hastur scowls. “Sounds like an’ ol’ jump and teleport. They probably grabbed your folks and returned to their domain.”

“Who? Who’s they? The angels?”

“It’s more of a demon trick, but since Gabriel was the one who warned you… He scratches his head, nicking one fo his toad’s toes. The toad shifts away from him lazily. Renee has her answer. “Guess it could be a team effort. Actually, that makes the most sense.”

Abigail presses two clenched fists against into her eyes. She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “I thought we were just gonna fight again. I was ready to fight again. Not _this_.”

“Kinda surprised they would do this,” Hastur remarks. He seems to be scratching his head out of impulse, and his toad seems very annoyed. “Not very classy. Ol’ fashioned, but...so below their standards.”

“So was it the angels or the demons, then?” Renee asks.

Hastur growls, mapping out the plot he was not invited to be a part of. “Both, I suspect. Has to be.”

“Alright. Then we’re going to heaven and hell,” Abigail declares.

Some phrases are never meant to be taken seriously. When a person normally tells someone to ‘Go to hell,’ they usually mean ‘Fuck off.” Fucking off is much easier to do than going to hell. Hell is not a hard place to find if you know how to get there, but it’s not exactly a vacation destination. If one goes to hell, they’re most likely to stay there.

Heaven is just as difficult to visit, but for other reasons entirely.  Demons at least welcome the sinister evils of mankind; Heaven is designed to unmake anyone who enters its domain. Harsh lighting, a strict bureaucratic system, and a close-minded ideology make for a scarring experience (and the typical office environment).

So when Abigail informs Hastur this is her next plan of action, of course he laughs at her. He chuckles, even. A kind of bubbly chuckle that comes from mocking someone else’s innocence. “We can’t do that.”

“We _have_ to,” Abigail stresses. Her throat is burning, panic taking over. “They took my family for a reason.”

“To get to you, yes,” Hastur concludes. “That’s exactly why you can’t go. Not to mention you don’t exactly have a guide.”

“ _You’re_ my guide.”

Hastur points in the halo’s general vicinity. “I’m a walking death sentence. You’re...oh, I don’t even know what you are. A bomb waiting for its lit fuse, I suppose.”

“Hastur _please_.” She’s grabbed him by the scarf, too short to lift him up but just tall enough to even their gazes. Her grip, while shaking, is not forceful. “I rushed this. Whatever this is. I can’t save anyone if I’m not there. I’m actually going to lose them this time and-”

Hastur takes her wrists gently and pushes her back. “I’m not walking you to your own funeral. We don’t even know where your funeral is. If we need to go to both heaven and hell, we can’t possibly make a trip to both. It’ll be one or the other.”

What an impossible choice it is to make. Impossible even more so for a child. Abigail shakes her head, her very nature demanding it. “We...w-we have to make both.”

Hastur frowns, not out of anger. “We won’t make either. There’s only two of us.”

Boiling tears prickle Abigail’s eyes. “Hastur, tell me how to get to hell.”

The halo is illuminated. Hastur grimaces, gritting his teeth. “N-No.”

“Hastur, tell me how to get to heaven.”

The halo is spinning now, glowing brighter with every turn. Hastur sways on his feet, clutching the toad atop his head. The toad squeaks in protest. “I _won’t_.”

“Hastur, please!” Abigail is having trouble getting her lungs to work. “ _Tell me!_ ”

The demon opens his mouth, than with his own two hands clamps it shut. His jaw keeps working against him, and seeing no other option he untangles his scarf and gags himself with it.

Sparks fly off of the halo, tap dancing along the tile until they die out. Hastur’s toupee sizzles, his toad crying out in horror. To disobey an order means Hastur is letting himself be torn apart by unbridled, celestial energy.

Renee grabs Abigail by the shoulders and jostles her. “Abby, _enough!_ He’s not going to tell you! Leave him alone!”

Abigail, shaken from her worry, realizes with horror what she’s doing. “Nevermind...n-nevermind, Hastur.”

Instantly, the halo disappears. Hastur is still smoldering, but the sigh he gives after ungagging himself leaves no trace of a doubt he’ll be okay. His toad goes back to sulking as if the incident never happened.

With her panic gone, Abigail is overcome with shame. She turns away from her friends, unable to face them. She can’t help but think she’s becoming the monster heaven and hell want her to be.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice wavering. “I can’t let go. I’m…”

Selfish. So selfish. She’s writing a story that isn’t her own, just to make an ending that only she’ll be satisfied with.

“It’s alright. Not like I didn’t encourage you save your aunt.”

Abigail looks to Hastur, trying desperately not to allow herself the privilege of shedding her tears. “Don’t let me make excuses. I never even freed you.”

Before Hastur can offer rebuttal, a crash from upstairs rattles the entire cottage.

   

Death stands midway between the open doorway and a broken coffee maker.

I DIDN’T THINK I SLAMMED THE DOOR THAT HARD.

Abigail could care less about the coffee maker. She could care a little more about the draft Death’s letting in, given they’re still in the middle of a blizzard. A blizzard she was sure would calm down by now, and hasn’t. That’s concerning.

Currently, she’s most concerned about Death, the scythe in his hands, and her two revived friends cowering behind her. There’s no avoiding this conversation, or its repercussions. Some way or another, she’ll have to find a way to keep Renee and Hastur alive.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Death glares, or appears to be trying to. OVER FIVE HUNDRED SOULS RECOVERED. SOME REPEATEDLY.

“I know-”

ARMAGEDDON PREVENTED. _AGAIN_.

She shrugs. “Runs in the family.”

I CANNOT BELIEVE NOT ONE PERSON HAS INFORMED YOU OF THE RESPONSIBILITY OF YOUR POWERS. YOU NEVER ASKED AFTER MY _VERY CLEAR WARNING_ WHAT YOU ARE AND ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DO. He points a long, bony finger in her direction . YOU MAY HAVE YOUR EXCUSES, BUT THERE IS NO EXPLANATION I WILL ACCEPT.

Abigail hadn’t been expecting Death to say anything different up to this point, but hearing him say it out loud still terrifies her to no end. “I messed up. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But please! Hear me out!”

WHY SHOULD I? YOUR FATHERS HAD ALL THE ANSWERS. NOT ONCE DID YOU ASK THEM ABOUT YOUR POWERS.

“How could I when they were dead? Huh?” If Abigail is going to lose this fight, she may as well go down kicking. Or at least screaming. She’d rather not kick Death in his bony kneecaps. It’s not her style.

THEY WERE DEAD, YES. BUT YOU MADE SURE THEY CAME BACK. SEVERAL TIMES. I MENTIONED THIS ALREADY. AND YOU WERE THERE. DON’T TRY TO PRETEND AS IF YOU NEVER HAD TIME TO ASK.

He’s right. Abigail hates how he’s right. What can she say to disprove him when he’s just so _right?_

“B-But they were, er, dead for a long while,” Hastur pipes up.

Abigail has to give him a smile for that. “Yeah! Six years, in fact. And none of us knew I could bring back the dead until I was six!”

Death lowers his hand, his movements clunky, like his processing power. YOU HAD TIME TO ASK WHEN THEY CAME BACK.

“What? When she was seven?” Renee asks. “Do you, like, know how the human brain works, right? Kids don’t remember anything. If they did tell her, if probably went right over her head.”

Abigail nods furiously. “And my dad who could tell me when I was older has been dead up until recently.”

WHEN YOU BROUGHT HIM BACK THREE MONTHS AGO. I’M AWARE. I CAN SENSE WHEN YOU BRING A SOUL BACK THAT NO LONGER BELONGS. Death adjusts his grip on his scythe. The blade glistens rather intimidatingly. I MAY NOT BE FAMILIAR WITH THE MATURITY OF MORTAL CHILDREN, BUT I DO KNOW SINCE YOUR FATHER’S RETURN THIS YEAR YOU COULD REMEMBER ANY EXPLANATION HE COULD’VE GIVEN YOU.

Well. There’s not much to be said against that. Check and mate.

If this were a game of chess, Death would be reaching over to knock down her king. But Abigail grabs her piece before it can topple, always one to ignore the rules in favor of her own.

“I don’t know how it works.”

Death just stares at her. I KNOW THAT.

“No, but...even my dads don’t know how it works. I have their powers. They can tell me how to use them, but there’s no one like me. They don’t work exactly as they should, as least the resurrection part. Why does it take my parents so long to come back, and Tadfield was instant?”

Death is silent for a moment. I-

“And another thing!” Abigail butts in. “All that Armageddon stuff happened when I was seven. And on my _birthday_ of all days. Angels and demons literally broke into my home, killed my dad, my aunt, and my uncle right in front of me, then used my hometown as a war grounds. How is that fair for a kid to go through all in one day?”

“You could say she was emotionally manipulated,” Renee adds. They spare a look at each other, and are amused by the other’s smirk.

Death thinks for another moment, scythe lowering. NOW THAT’S NOT FAIR.

“But it’s true!” Abigail protests. “That was their plan all along, I bet!”

Then she gets an idea. A wicked idea. One that only comes under dire circumstances when it is most needed.

“And I can get you proof.”

PROOF?

“Yes. But I’m going to need your help to do it.”

Death goes to cross his arms, then thinks twice about it. I AM NOT HELPING YOU AFTER ALL YOU’VE DONE.

“Well, if I were to bring you the archangel Gabriel and make him confess, would that be proof enough for you?”

IT-ER...VERBAL CONFIRMATION?

“Yes.”

IF WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS TRUE, HOW CAN YOU EVEN GET SUCH A HIGH-RANKING ANGEL TO CONFESS TO SUCH A CRIME?

“I’ll have to figure that out. As part of my punishment, the only help I’ll ask of you is that you get me and my demon companion to heaven.”

There’s a pause. AND IF YOU CAN ACCOMPLISH THIS, AND GET GABRIEL TO CONFESS, WHAT THEN?

“Then you stop doing...whatever it is you’re doing here,” Abigail answers as confidently as the sentence will allow her to.

I AM HERE TO RECLAIM THE SOULS OF TADFIELD YOU HAVE RETURNED...BUT IF I CAN BE...CONVINCED THAT FOUL PLAY WAS INVOLVED, I WILL LEAVE THEM BE. AS MUCH AS IT PAINS ME.

Abigail blinks. “Really?” She hadn’t exactly expected any of this to work out in her favor.

I AM DEATH. I ENFORCE THE NATURAL ORDER UPON THIS WORLD. BUT I AM NOT UNFORGIVING. I SIMPLY DO AS I AM SUPPOSED TO DO. AS ONE HALF OF THE BALANCING ACT TO ANOTHER, I DO HOPE YOU CAN PROVE YOUR INNOCENCE.

He taps his scythe against the floor, and Renee disappears in a puff of smoke.

Abigail’s heart stops. It may, and she's able to revive herself in the span of a millisecond, because she honestly believes she has just died. “What are you doing?!”

SHE IS ONE OF THE SOULS YOU HAVE RETURNED. WHEN YOU BRING ME THE ARCHANGEL, SHE WILL BE WAITING IN HOGBACK WOODS WITH ME. THIS IS TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE NOT TEMPTED TO FIND A LOOPHOLE AND BREAK OUR DEAL WHILE IN HEAVEN. I WILL NOT BE KIND IF YOU IN ANY WAY ARE DISHONEST WITH ME.

Death taps his scythe twice more upon the floor. He goes up in smoke, while Abigail and Hastur vanish with a flash of angelic light.


	23. Do Some Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time is spent in heaven, and some elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all we made it to the scene I’ve been most excited to get too. I mean what comes next is just as wild but this chapter has THE SCENE I’ve been anticipating personally. And it’s the longest chapter yet I think. Have fun

“Come on. Surely you’ve come up with a name by now.”

Anathema looks up to Crowley, finally managing to tear her eyes away from the heavily armed angels and demons surrounding them. “Oh. Well...not really.”

She looks down at her baby, all swaddled up and napping soundly, as if he were lying in a hospital bassinet.

“We couldn’t really agree on one, so we kept putting it off.”

“I still think Richard is a good name,” Newt interjects.

“We are not naming our son after Dick Turnpin.”

Crowley kneels down on the floor with them. It’s insanely difficult not to coo at the baby, even in such a tense situation. Making silly faces at Abigail when she was an infant was without  doubt one of the peaks of parenthood for him. “Kinda looks like an Alec.”

The new parents eye him oddly. “Alec?”

“Yeah. Well, look at him. It’s all...Alec. Alec City, this boy. Lots of Alec potential.”

Anathema squints at her son, not convinced. Newt, however, seems pleased. “He does look like an Alec.”

“You really think so?”

“More of an Alec than a Richard, I’ll admit.”

“Huh.” It takes Anathema one last look to be persuaded, then the goofiest smile spreads across her face. “Hello Alec.” Though it comes out as “Hewwo Oweck.” Parenthood has struck her swiftly.

Crowley stands, a wide grin on his face despite everything. He turns towards the mass surrounding them and pouts. “C’mon. You can’t seriously be that heartless. That was cute as hell! Er, heaven. Whichever you prefer.”

Neither army takes his words to heart. They are unflinching, armor glistening under heaven’s course, fluorescent lighting. Beelzebub stands at the head of their subordinates, dressed in regal battle garb that is too bulky for their smaller form. “Our patience will only stretch so thin. Summon the child, or we execute the lot of you.”

Crowley shrugs. “Can’t. Don’t know how to do that. Never tried.”

“Then try this _once_ ,” Beelzebub growls. “Your very lives depend on it.”

They put a hand to the hilt of their sword. Crowley crosses his arms, right over where he was struck with the blade once before. Of the many ways there are to die, being impaled certainly isn’t a great one.

He will endure it again if he has to, though. If it means Abigail is safe. He only wishes his humans would be spared. He only wishes for his angel to escape. He wishes for a lot of things really, but never to secure his own life.

Beelzebub’s hairy stare is less than pleasing, so Crowley strolls over to better company. Aziraphale has his arms crossed as well, a deep, gutting scowl carved into his face. He’s been staring a hole through Gabriel ever since they were brought here.

Crowley scans Gabriel over. His stupid suit, his stupid hairdue, his stupid everything. He’s the only one on the opposing side without armor. Crowley suspects his arrogance and egotism are enough to a shield to protect him.

“Are you two having a staring contest or something?”

Aziraphale goes to roll his eyes, but that would mean he’d lose the contest. Crowley waves his hand suddenly at Gabriel, and the archangel blinks wildly.

“Ha! Gotcha.”

There’s a sharp sigh as Aziraphale grabs him by the arm and spins him the other way. “Are you trying to provoke a fight?” he hisses under his breath.

“I’m trying to keep things light.” Crowley softens his tone. “We’re clearly not making it out of this one. Might as well enjoy each other’s company before then.”

Aziraphale’s scowl falters. “We may come back...but there’s nothing we can do for-”

“I know.”

“Do they know we can’t-?”

“Surely Anathema does. She’s smarter than everyone in this room put together.” He pries Aziraphale’s hand off of him just to hold it. In their final moments, he wants nothing more than to hold onto his angel. For once, they can depart from this world together, and discover whatever awaits them in the great beyond.

Unless Abigail intervenes mysteriously. Again.

Oh Abigail.

Crowley prays. He prays for the first time in his existence. He slides down onto his knees, dragging Aziraphale down with him, and brings their clasped hands to his lips.

Words that burn his insides slip off his tongue. He speaks them quickly. Not to finish the prayer as fast as he possibly can, but to get in his infinite amount of desperation.

Gabriel makes a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a laugh, but bred purely from disgust. “Seriously? A demon-Are you all seeing this? A demon praying.”

Disapproving comments are thrown from the crowd. Aziraphale tenses, as if waiting for the perfect to strike. Crowley squeezes his hand and draws his attention. “Join me?”

The fire in Aziraphale’s eyes is doused, his gaze now growing soft. “Of course.”

And so they pray, words mixing together, pleas overlapping, hopelessness bleeding out of them in gallon fulls.

 

Heaven is much more cramped than Abigail expected it to be. It’s also filled with an odd amount of cleaning products and mops and a real lack of any angels-

Oh. They’re just in a supply closet.

Hastur and her are pressed shoulder to shoulder, staring back at their reflections in the closed steel door.

“At least Death was gracious enough to give us a moment to plan,” she remarks.

Hastur takes a waft. “Smells like lemon.”

Abigail turns so they’re now face to face. “Okay. Plan time. What are we gonna do?”

“We don’t know the layout of this place, or where they’re holding your family.”

“I thought you’ve been here before?”

Hastur gestures to himself. “ _Demon_. There’s only been one rare occasion where a demon was actually invited up here, and it was to kill your father. The angel one.”

Abigail groans, stressed far beyond the limits that are considered healthy for a child her age. Or any child for that matter. “He described it to me once. This place is just supposed to be kinda open and boring. My other dad was just kept out in the open-”

“Wait,” Hastur stops her. “Other dad? Crowley? Your _demon father_ Crowley?”

Abigail nods.

“How? When?! I just said on _one_ rare occasion-!”

“They did this whole body swap thing so the other wouldn’t die horribly in the hellfire and holy water,” she explains. “You...you didn’t figure that out?”

Hastur frowns sheepishly. “Er...neither side has ever figured that out. They just assume your folks went native, and that had somethin’ to do with it.”

“Damn. You all really don’t check up on anything, do you?”

“ _They_ don’t,” Hastur corrects her furiously, but his temper dies instantly.

Abigail catches on, smiling. “You’re right. They don’t check, but you’re not one of them anyway. I bet you would’ve figured it out eventually.”

Hastur matches her smile, eyes twinkling. “Alright. Plan.”

“Right. Plan.”

“I’ve got a bad one in mind.”

“Lay it on me.”

“How good are your acting skills?”

Abigail grins. “I got a B in theater class last year. That good enough for your plan?”

Hastur laughs. “A D would be flying colors when it comes to foolin’ them.”

 

“THIS WHO YOU WANT?”

Aziraphale’s voice is stripped from his, his prayer ending unfinished. He jumps to his feet, Crowley coming with him, as the armies part ways to form a path.

On the other side of that path is Hastur, with a flaming hand held up just below Abigail's chin.

The world turns red. Aziraphale rushes forward.

“ANGEL!” Crowley yells as he tackles him to the floor. His limbs may be weaker, but he’s spindly enough to trip Aziraphale and keep him held down. “Don’t. Just don’t. Just wait. Please.”

Aziraphale thrashes once more, than ceases. He knows how to break free of this; it’ll only take an elbow to Crowley’s jaw. But he waits, because Crowley begged him to.

Hastur nudges Abigail forward. Their daughter obeys, a stricken look on her face. Toe two of them stumble awkwardly down the lane, trapping themselves further in the belly of the beast. “I knew what you lot were doin’. I knew the second the others disappeared. You left me with this brat again, and this time I’m not lettin’ you leave me behind.”

He hoists Abigail up by the back of her jacket and hurls her across the rest of the way. She goes sprawling onto the tile, right at Crowley and Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale immediately shrugs Crowley off and drags Abigail into his arms. Crowley urges them to back up, holding them both from behind.

“Abby. Abby. Are you alright sweetie? Did he hurt you?” Aziraphale stares daggers at Hastur. “DID YOU HURT HER?”

“M-My head,” Abigail mumbles. “My head.”

Crowley runs a quick hand through her hair, finding nothing but roots and a pale scalp. There’s no blood, no bruising, nothing. Yet he pulls his hand away as if he found something.

Aziraphale looks for himself, him too coming up empty. Then he feels it, the gentle pulse of angelic energy.

There is a halo on top of her head. His head.

Aziraphale looks back to Hastur, no longer seeing the demon he was moments away from slaying. “ _No_.”

Hastur smirks, and immediately Aziraphale starts to catch the differences. The edges of his smile have been filed down, and the toad atop his head seems more at ease.

Aziraphale continues his prayer internally, unable to utter it out loud without damning his daughter.

“What do you want, traitor?” Beelzebub asks, clearly annoyed. They’ve gotten what they wanted, but instead of setting off their mousetrap they have to act as HR.

“I’m not a traitor,” “Hastur” claims. He points a sinister finger in “Abigail’s” direction. “That abomination put me under the effects of her halo. Everythin’ I did these past years I was ordered to. She never let me leave, kept me prisoner, forced me to kill Dagon. Er, sorry about that.”

Somewhere in the crowd there’s a huff. Evidently feelings are not mutual about murdering the other.

“I was kept as a pet,” “he” snarls, “but now that I’ve freed myself, I demand to be let back in and restored to my dukeship. I’ve brought you the child, now fulfill my request.”

Aziraphale notices the trip up and upon this realization nearly weeps. Abigail has given away her only bargaining chip at the start of this all. She should have waited to trade off Hastur until she solidified a deal.

And yet, Beelzebub gives in. “Fine then. Welcome back, or whatever.”

They snap their fingers, and Anathema, Newt, and Alec disappear.

“Hastur” jumps, just barely. No one seems to notice but Aziraphale. “What’d you do that for?”

“They sent the humans back, obviously,” Gabriel mocks him. “We can’t kill them in heaven or hell, or else Death will have a grudge against us.” He glares down at Aziraphale, grinning wickedly. “But angels and demons are still on the menu.”

He claps his hands, and tens of dozens of angels and demons unseithe their weapons. It’s another bloodbath, one Aziraphale can’t end on his own. He’s only so powerful.

“Hastur” pulls a piece of cigarette paper out of his pocket, along with a bag of tobacco, and begins to roll a stick together. “On the menu? That’s kinda stupid. We don’t even eat.”

Gabriel slides “him” a long, incredulous look. “Keep your mouth shut, unless you want to join them. You’re on thin fucking ice, buddy.”

“Hastur” ignores his threat, sticking his new cigarette in “his” mouth. “He” pulls out a lighter, right as “Abigial” tucks a hand inside her jacket. Something sloshes around in her grip.

“Gotta say, the kid deserved it. Tricking the natives into thinkin’ you gave ‘em the baby instead of God, offing them once in a while, using the kid as an excuse to start Armageddon. Really, I find it all impressive.”

“Hastur. Shut. _It_.” Beelzebub orders, teeth gnashed together.

Again, “Hastur” ignores them. “Just one thing. It’s been botherin’ me. We’re supposed to be following the rules, right? Being strict about what’s supposed to be and what isn’t. Yet you exploited so many loopholes. You even pulled the wool over the eyes of Death. Don’t think he’ll be very happy if he finds out you did that.”

“He” takes a drag of his cigarette. Aziraphale winces, reminding himself that if they survive this to give Abigail a stern talk about drug use.

All eyes in the room fly to “him.” Gabriel and Beelzebub swivel to face him, their suspicions mounting.

“Who said he’ll ever find out?” Gabriel asks very, very slowly.

“Hastur” shrugs. “You never know. Loose lips sink ships an’ all that.” Then “he” flicks his cigarette into the air.

It sails rather gracefully, following a perfect arch that lands exactly in a puddle of bathtub cleaner “Abigail” has just doused the floor with.

The cleaner catches fire, and before Aziraphale can be absorbed into it, time freezes.

 

In the plane between time, true forms can be revealed. Aziraphale and Crowley peel away from Hastur, the latter demon brushing off his coat sleeves and consequently wiping cleaner onto himself. Abigail comes running from across the way, throwing herself at her fathers.

She swears they have never held her so tightly before.

“Oh Abby, don’t you _ever_ do that again!” Aziraphale warns. He presses a firm kiss to her forehead, and mutters something against smoking under his breath.

Abigail buries her face into the space between them, her entire being radiant with joy. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they were gonna take you away.”

“Don’t fret,” Crowley assures her. He’s running a hand through her hair, grateful for what he no longer finds. “We’re all good now. We should get going though. You can’t hold it for long.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re all going.”

And Abigail turns to where Gabriel should be standing, and finds no one there.

“Wait. I...I let him in. I didn’t...where’d he-?”

It hits her. It hits all of them. Gabriel isn’t with them, because he’s no longer anywhere.

He must have been standing too close to the flame.

“No.” Abigail pulls away. “No.” She walks over to where Gabriel would be. “ _No_.” Her knees give out from under her, and she falls.

Renee. Tadfield. Adam. Anathema. Newt. The baby. All of them. Gone. Just like Gabriel. Maybe her parents too. And Hastur.

Dead. Truly dead.

A remorse so terrible it cannot be described consumes her. It numbs her to the point she can’t breathe. “I failed. They’re all... _Renee-_ ”

She’s all alone with Death, counting on Abigail to save her. Counting on help that is never going to come.

Useless. This has all been useless. Her powers are useless. Abigail is useless. She knows she’s worthless. Selfish and useless and a bringer of bad, bad luck.

That’s all she’s been good for. Her parents are proof of that.

Hastur puts himself in front of her, easing himself to his knees. “You’re not useless.”

Abigail blinks back tears of acid. Toxic because they come from her. “I can’t save them.”

Hastur grimaces, but only because of the static. “You can. You’re gonna have to. I killed Gabriel. It’s my fault, not yours. And now you have to try to talk Death down without proof.”

She shakes her head, whispering, “He won’t listen. He hates me.”

He rolls his eyes. “He only hates when the rules are broken. He’s just the same as the bastards who’ve been messin’ with you all this time. You can convince him to let ‘em all go, and you won’t ever have to worry about anyone comin’ after you ever again.”

Abigail scoffs, taking a grand look at the sandy abyss encompassing them, picturing what should be there instead. “This will never end. Not as long as I’m alive.”

Hastur nods. “Yeah, maybe…That’s why I’m stayin.’”

The swap. They never reversed the swap. They can’t do it when fixed in time. Abigail even grabs him by the arm and tries to. She feels no change. “You can’t. Please, Hastur.”

He smiles at her sadly. “You need time to talk to Death without bein’ interrupted. I can buy you that time.”

“No. No please. I need you. You’re my friend and I _need_ you.”

He won’t stop smiling at her. Abigail’s tears burn her cheeks as they fall. “I’ve done a lot of bad as a demon. Heaven, I even killed your dad. I told you never to save me again, remember?” His smile widens. “Let me do some good for once. At least let me see if I can try.”

His expression is pained, the static no doubt becoming unbearable. There will be no negotiating with him, and Abigail knows it. She’s never seen a more certain look anyone’s eyes before. And she does need the time, as much as it will cost her.

The tears won’t stop flowing, and the sobs won’t stop mounting, but somehow Abigail is able to eek out, “H-Hastur...I f-free you.”

The halo reveals itself. Delicately, it hovers away from Hastur’s head and places itself over Abigail’s. Immediately, Hastur relaxes, finally at peace.

“You better go now,” he urges her. “Leave me your thermos, though. Gotta buy you all an alibi.”

Abigail retrieves the holy water from her box and hands it to him solemnly. “I’m so-”

“Don’t say it,” he snaps.

“Thankful ...I-I was going to say... _Thank you_. F-For everything.”

Hastur blinks, taken aback. “M-Maybe not everythin’,” he croaks. “Now get lost.”

Abigail thinks about leaving, but throws her arms around him instead. She sobs freely into his shoulder, not at all ready to say goodbye. She’s always had such a hard time with goodbyes.

Hastur’s arms hover over her back, then hesitantly wrap themselves around her. He’s never been hugged before, and he’s not really sure how to do it.

It’s not so bad, hugging. Hastur finds he rather likes it. He should have given hugging a try sooner.

He knows Abigail won’t ever be the one to break away first, so he pushes her away, rising before she can pull him back in for another embrace.

Aziraphale finds his gaze once he’s back on his feet. There’s no longer any resentment in the angel’s eyes. Only respect.

Emotions aren’t really Hastur’s cup of tea. He’d like to die now and stop feeling so much. But as he’s come to learn, feelings are meant to be treasured. Even though he’s at the end of his journey, he appreciates the few good ones Abigail has shared with him.

And Mario. He’s going to miss playing Mario nearly as much as he’ll miss her.

He never did beat the final boss.

Crowley takes Abigail by the shoulders and holds her in place as Hastur takes her spot. She watches as he positions himself exactly where he was before, crouched on the ground in an invisible embrace.

The toad on Hastur’s head closes its eyes, ready for a nice, long rest.

Then time restarts, and Abigail is miracled away.

 

They reappear outside Pulsifer cottage, the blizzard slamming against them as it continues on its rampage.

Crowley unfolds his wings, then thinks better of it and tucks then away. “We won’t be able to fly in this storm! Where can we find Death?”

He’s shouting against the wind, thought Abigail barely hears him. Her mind is teeming, divided upon whether to mourn or carry on. The latter wins, but just barely.

“Hogback Woods...We’ll need to take the Bentley or else we’ll never get there!”

They race to the car. Her parents climb into the front seats, occupied entirely with the mission. Abigail slams a hand down on top of the car, then slides into the back seat.

Crowley steps on the gas, and they carve through the storm.

 

It should be impossible to drive through such weather. Crowley likes to think he deals in the impossible, and deals fairly well.

Despite driving over one hundred miles per hour, Aziraphale urges him to go faster. The angel is paying close attention to the path ahead, calling out obstacles as he sees them.

“TREE!”

Crowley swerves, then catches the wheel before they can barrel into a different one. The further into the woods they go, the harder it is to avoid the foliage. Everything is placed together so densely, and with the blizzard having come so suddenly hardly any of the leaves have had time to die. The trees seem larger as a result, padded with snow.

“TREE!”

Again, he swerves. What stands before them now is nothing but a winter wonderland. They’ve reached a clearing, one that should take them right up to Death’s temporary doorstep. It’s all going to end soon, for better or for worse. Crowley refuses to believe it will be anything but better.

“Almost there!” he cries. “We’ll make it! It’ll be alright Abby!”

Abigail’s response, immediately after, is to scream at the top of her lungs, “ _CRASH!_ ”

The Bentley’s steering wheel jerks all on its own, violently to the left. Crowley’s hands come flying off. He grabs back on not a moment after, but can’t force the wheel back where he wants it.

Aziraphale raises his own hand, ready to miracle the oncoming monster of a tree out of their way, but they collide before he gets a chance to.

Everything goes hazy for a few minutes. Crowley vaguely remembers calling for Aziraphale, feeling the scrap of the cold wind against his neck, and hearing the back door to the Bently slam shut.

He comes too, finding himself not badly off. Just dazed, miraculously. Aziraphale is in the exact same shape, though he is much more alert coming out of it. “Abigail?”

Crowley pushes himself against his window, reaching for the handle. Abigail yells something, and the handle refuses to budge.

“Abigail. Abigail! What did you do?!”

Their daughter comes closer to the glass, just enough to be heard. Still tear-streaked, with the same expression Hastur had on his face before they left. “I’m sorry dad! I needed a ride!”

A ball of lead sinks to the bottom of Crowley’s stomach. “No... _No!_ You open this door RIGHT NOW!”

She shakes her head. “I’m not taking back my order! You won’t be able to miracle it open, so please don’t hurt yourselves!

Aziraphale scooches himself as best he can next to Crowley, eyes watering. “Abigail please! We can talk to Death together! Just open the doors PLEASE!”

Abigail only puts her hand to the glass. Her fingertips are red, soon to be frostbitten. “I love you...I love you two so much...I can’t let you die for real!”

Crowley puts his hand to Abigail’s just as she pulls away. She says something to the wind. He is only able to catch the word “safe.”

She’s saving their lives by making the Bentley untouchable under the affects of her halo. Then she’s blowing them a kiss, and running off into the storm to throw away her own.

“Crowley, we’re losing her,” Aziraphale shakes him, breathless. “ _Crowley!_ ”

Crowley throws himself against his car door. He tears at the handle, bashes his elbow against the window, kicks at the windshield with Aziraphale. Nothing works.

“YOU ARE MY CAR!” he screams, loud enough to tear apart his lungs. “YOU ARE MY CAR AND YOU WILL _OPEN THESE DOORS!_ ”

Not even the Fear of Crowley can combat the selflessness of their child. Time goes by, and a good deal of it before the two of them finally accept the unacceptable. That they won’t be let out, and their child is going to die.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, in tears. “Angel…”

Aziraphale looks back at him, in the same state. “Crowley...it’s always been us. Never her. It’s always been-”

Crowley envelopes him before his fiance can finish that statement. He cradles his angel, his sweet, sweet angel, who has given him the world, and weeps over the loss of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hastur La Vista has never been more relevant
> 
> btw did anyone catch my very obvious broadchurch reference


	24. Special: a vine comp for y'all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a new chapter. This is a special little vine comp for you all to enjoy and take a breather from the angst. I made it a while ago but couldn't post it until it wasn't spoilery anymore. It was a lot of fun to make and I hope you like it! Thank you all so much for your never-ending kindness!!!!!!!!!

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkWOmFIj7DQ>

 

i have no idea how to use imovie or ao3


	25. A Balancing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life and Death have a discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are.

Twenty yards. That’s the distance Abigail has to travel, though bitter winds and blades of ice. She trudges along, ankles cutting through the snow, stuck at a snail’s pace.

Breaths are rare to come by. She spares one to warm her hands. She still can’t feel them all too well.

Yet onward she goes. She thinks of Renee, of Tadfield, of Hastur, but not her fathers. If she thinks about them for a moment longer she’ll turn tail and flee. She would rather be in the car with them, out of this storm, safe in their arms. But safety is not something she can allow herself, not when it costs so much.

A spec appears not too far off. Two specs. One taller than the other. Abigail quickens her pace, throwing herself against the snow banks.

“RENEE! _RENEE!_ ”

Her teeth are chattering like jackhammers, her tongue limp in her mouth. She doesn’t have the strength to yell again. Something about this storm is draining every ounce of her energy.

“ABBY? ABIGAIL!”

She’s there. Just up ahead. Abigail sprints the final yard, her body giving one last hurrah before she stumbles and falls.

Hands find her shoulders and hoist her up to her knees. Snow is dusted off her face. The wind was ceased.

Renee’s cheeks are terribly rosy, but otherwise she seems unharmed. “Oh my God, you’re so _cold_.”

“‘S cold out,” Abigail mumbles. She shakes her head, clearing her daze, and notices the storm has stopped. Or at least, around them it has. A perfect circle of earth has been spared of winter’s wrath, the blizzard kept out by an invisible barrier. The snow inside has even been thawed, the grass it once covered dead and crunchy.

Renee helps Abigail to her feet, clinging fretfully to her arm. “Are you okay? Where’s Gabriel?”

Abigail can’t force herself to look Renee in the eye, but she does so anyway, facing her failure head on. “H-He’s dead. Hastur...Hastur’s dead too.”

A variety of emotions pass over Renee’s face, but eventually she settles on dread. “Oh...Abby, I’m so sorry.”

Abigail shakes her head, and looks to Death instead. “I don’t have any evidence…”

Death holds out his scythe, digging the staff into the ground and using it to balance. Negotiations have begun. YES. I FELT THE ARCHANGEL DIE. AS WELL AS THE DEMON.

Abigail pulls Renee closer to her, still trembling from the cold. “So that’s it then...right? I failed. I-Renee, I...I’m so sorry. I-I can’t...I couldn’t…”

Renee breathes deeply, trying to fight the panic that comes with dying. “It’s okay. It’s okay, really. Y-You already brought me back once, and...I really liked getting to know you.”

There’s a lump in Abigail’s throat. “I r-really liked getting to know you too. I _really_ liked you.”

“Will you be all alone without me?”

“Maybe...I hope not. I hope my dads will stick around.”

“Me too, because you shouldn’t be alone. That’s not fair after all you’ve…”

Renee grows teary, and pulls Abigail into a hug. Thirteen years old, and she’s going to die. Without ever playing football professionally. Without ever graduating from secondary school. Without every truly living. It’s not fair. It’s not _fair_.

A scale needs equal weight on both sides to balance. If one load is too heavy, it will topple over. Weight will need to be taken from it.

Or, weight needs to be added to the other side.

“What if I gave you my power?” Abigail asks.

Death cocks his head, not sure if he’s heard her right. WHY...WOULD YOU DO THAT?

She peels herself away from Renee, who reaches back out for her. But Abigail moves away from her, approaching her hereditary enemy. “Look...I kept up my end of the deal. Sort of. I didn’t try to fool you. I showed up empty handed. I didn’t try to bring Gabriel back to life. I...I let my friend die..I let go. But I wanted to save him, so _badly_...and if I could redo it all I would do it.”

She holds out her hands, palms facing the Almighty who gave her such strength.

“So just take it from me. I’ll never stop breaking the rules, and you’ll never be done enforcing them. This way we both stay out of each other’s business, and life goes on as it should.”

Death just stares at her. He’s always been emotionless, but this is the only time she’s ever found him unreadable.

“C’mon, I did _try_ not to take shortcuts. And I didn’t...You...I’m not...I’m not asking you bring Hastur...Hastur back..or even Gabriel...Just spare Tadfield. Spare my family. Spare Renee.”

The wind whips faster around Death’s shield. Heaven and hell are going ballistic, finally realizing the Abigail they killed is not all that dead. Time slips between Abigail’s outstretched hands like sand through a sifter. She’s hoping a nugget of hope will get caught between her fingers.

Death is still for a very long while. Then he leans backwards a bit, his scythe supporting him. YOUR FRIEND TOLD ME WHAT YOU’VE BEEN THROUGH WHILE YOU WERE AWAY.

“O-Oh?”

IT WAS AN...INTERESTING CONVERSATION. ONE I THOUGHT TO BE A BIT FAR FETCHED, STRUNG TOGETHER SIMPLY TO KEEP HER ALIVE.

“It is a little, well, crazy,” Abigail admits. “And sucky.”

NONE OF IT CAN BE TRUE...AT LEAST, THAT’S WHAT I BELIEVED.

Abigail gasps silently. “You mean…? You believe her? You believe me?”

Death nods his head. NOT UNTIL YOU ALLOWED YOURSELF TO ENDURE DEFEAT. I WAS EXPECTING TO HAVE TO INTERROGATE AN ARCHANGEL THIS EVENING. I MUST ADMIT, THIS IS A MUCH MORE ENJOYABLE ALTERNATIVE.

He pulls his scythe out of the earth, holding it as if it is waiting to be wielded.

I AM GOING TO ENJOY GIVING THEM A STERN TALKING TO, INSTEAD.

She did it. Abigail did it.

She really did it.

She just about collapses, grateful Hastur’s sacrifice has meant something. That she didn’t waste the time he gave her. She owed him that much.

And Renee. She turns to Renee, positively _beaming_ . Where there once was nothing spans a glorious future, filled with bountiful happiness and long-lasting prosperity. Filled with love and companionship. Filled with football and adulthood and _life_.

Tadfield will thrive. Anathema and Newt will raise their son in a world without war. Her parents-Oh her _parents_. They’ll get married come spring and dine at the Ritz without interruption. They’ll live without fear of any more early departures.

They’ll be happy. Truly happy.

BUT FIRST...BALANCE.

Without her.

Abigail turns to Death. There is an absence of fear, terrifying for a child her age. But she is far too relieved to pity herself. “Yeah...Sorry again. You were just trying to do your job.”

WHAT’S PASSED HAS PASSED.

“What that...was that a pun?”

I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU WILL SURVIVE THIS.

“But you can do it, right?”

“Wait.” Renee is finally catching on. “Wait, no. Abby, you cah...What about your _parents?!_ What about m-!?”

Now it’s Abigail who pulls her into an embrace. “I have to do this. If I don’t, you die.”

“Why do you have to die but not _me?_ ” she demands. “H-How is that _fair?_ You’re just trading one life for another!”

“One for hundreds,” she whispers. “I’m the only one that can do this. You have to let me do this.”

Renee chokes on a cry. “B-But...you can’t, okay? You just can’t. You’re leaving too much behind. You’ll lose everything.”

Perhaps there’s another reason to Abigail’s numbness. What she has mistaken for shock may be unbridled focus, channeled specifically to take in each and every word Renee says, and internal it in a way that she needs to hear.

And perhaps, _perhaps_ , Abigail forms a lesson from all this.

She pulls away suddenly and says, “Actually, I’m not gonna die Renee.”

Renee catches her breath, lost. “Wha-?”

“You’ll see. Be right back.”

Abigail turns to Death, nodding confidently. “Do it.”

ARE...WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL?

“Nothing,” she grins. “I’m not gonna do a thing...but someone else might.”

Death eyes her down, not willing to further risk his dignity on a scam. Then he catches on, and begins to wish there was an HR department he could report to himself.

THAT’S HARDLY FAIR.

And he strikes Abigail down with his scythe.

 

Abigail lives. As she expected, as I expected, as you dear reader may have suspected. This story was never going to end with anything less than a happy one. Or at the very least, a bittersweet one.

This is what should have happened:

Abigail’s soul should have been ripped from her body. That same soul should have passed on to the astral plane, or wherever souls go when their bodies expire.

Here is what actually happens:

Abigail’s sense of reality shifts. Hogback Woods changes completely. Trees turn to lampposts. Snow-covered bushes turn into cars. Structures emerge from thin air. Concrete is made alchemy-like from the dirt.

She stands on the streets of Soho, outside a bookshop she has only the faintest memory of. And even those memories have been frankensteined from stories her fathers have told, meaning the details she imagined are warped from the original.

However, every detail of Aziraphale’s bookshop is true to its form. It takes the magic a bit out of her childhood imagination, but Abigail has other things to mind right now.

For instance, who exactly may be inside the bookshop if she’s out of it.

She wastes no time in solving that mystery, and knocks on the door.

No one comes to open it. In fact, it seems as if there’s no one inside at all. The lights are unlit, and the novels inside, closed and dusty, are sleeping deeply in a timeless slumber.

Pity. Abigail kind of wanted to have a conversation with herself. Fulfill a childhood fantasy of having a clone and arguing who’s the original and whatnot. She steps back onto the street, rather disappointed, but still not dead.

“Turn around, Abigail.”

It’s not her own voice, though it is one she recognizes. Younger and lighter, without millenniums of wisdom and love to shape it. The face is younger too, but not in years, and uncomfortably different. Brown eyes instead of reptilian slits, a rosy glow instead of an unwell pale complexion, and hair longer and luscious than even the most experienced of Photoshop professionals could make appear.

What bothers Abigail most is the clothes. White linen robes, with woven strands of gold draped across his chest as the worst sash to hit the fashion world. Though at the start of creation, the concept of fashion wasn’t really a thing yet.

Raphael smiles, radiating a generous kindness that does not belong to him. Or did once, but no longer fits. “You’ve done well.”

Abigail tucks her hands into her pockets. “All according to plan, right?” she asks awkwardly. “There was a plan. I mean, it seems like this was all a plan for something.”

Raphael just keeps smiling.

“I guess you couldn’t tell me anyway.” She brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear, feeling rather sheepish. “There’s probably a lot you can’t tell me, but...you’re not Raphael, are you?”

Raphael, or better yet his image, nods truthfully.

“Am I allowed to say who I think you are?”

Raphael just stares at her. It takes Abigail a moment to realize he’s waiting for her to guess.

“Uh...hi grandma?”

Throughout all of creation, not one single living entity has ever referred to the Almighty as their grandma. Raphael bursts out laughing, more amused than he (or more accurately She) has been for a long, long while. Too long a while, perhaps.

“Oh Abigail,” She wheezes ( _actually wheezes_ ), “You are far too sweet.”

Abigail laughs nervously. “That’s how you made me?”

“I made you to be a great many things,” Raphael explains for her, or as her. Take your pick as to which applies more. “And I believe you know what those things are.”

Abigail shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. It’ll sound dumb if I say it.”

“Well, why not say it?”

“‘Cause I could be wrong, and it’ll make “dying” in front of my crush look really stupid.”

Raphael laughs. “My child, never be afraid to guess. Guessing requires faith, and as long as you have faith in yourself who is to say if you are wrong? Unless you are wrong, or believe dinosaurs actually roamed the Earth.”

“I still don’t think I get why my dads find that so funny,” she admits. “Am I...am I a lesson? Was I born to give my dads-like am I supposed to teach them…? This sounded way cooler in my head.”

Raphael nods. “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

“I am?”

Another nod.

“Okay. Um...one day...the world really is gonna end. My dads won’t be able to talk their way out of it, and I won’t always be around to stop it. Unless I’m immortal. I’m not immortal, am I?”

Raphael shakes his/Her head.

“Oh. I didn’t think I was, but I was almost hoping I would be. Anyway...it’ll be the end, but it won’t really be that bad. It’ll probably feel natural, or something. But they’ll want to fight it, because they love the world, and they love each other. But they can love each other without the world, because they’re already each other’s world?”

There is no nod, shake, or smile. Just a very attentive cherub.

“A-And so whatever comes after death for them, it’ll all be okay. Dad will have dad, and vice versa. I’ll be...somewhere. Dead, I guess. I’ll have to be. And, um...when I die..I’ll be like their wake-up call. All my life, I’ve struggled to let people go. Having powers of resurrection doesn’t help, but I think I’ve learned it’s best to move on, to mourn, and live a life that person would want you to live. They’re gonna have a really hard time getting over-Well, I hope they won’t _get over_ me. I want to be remembered. But, like...it’s hard. They’re old. Really old. Old people don’t like change that much, and what’s a bigger change than death? Did, uh...did any of that make sense?”

Now comes a nod. “It did.”

Abigail lets out a breath. “Good, because I didn’t really understand what I was saying by the end. Like, I know what I was _trying_ to say but I wasn’t saying _exactly_ what I wanted to...How long have I been here?”

“That depends,” Raphael smirks. “You’ve been unconscious for six seconds. As for how long you’ve been here…” She trails off, her smug expression an answer in it of itself.

“What’s with all the sixes?” Abigail asks, and she might as well. When else will she get a chance to? “My dads were dead for half a decade, then they just showed back up. What’s up with that?”

Raphael grows rather sheepish suddenly. “Well...They had to survive long enough for you to teach them-For you to learn-The six is because of how many millenniums it took for them to get together, okay?”

It’s an answer so obvious and ridiculous Abigail can’t help but laugh. “They’re your favorites, aren’t they?”

“I do _not_ play favorites,” She lies terribly. “You are tied to your fathers by a special celestial connection. And because you were always meant to give up your powers, I had to make sure there would be a way for them to survive any future threats to their life-”

Maybe The Almighty doesn’t speak much anymore because she’s a bit of a blabbermouth. Everyone likes an author who spoils the ending of their own book, except for the author.

Raphael composes Herself, clearing Her throat. “Well...I think it’s time I sent you back. There is a girl who desperately wants you to wake up right now.”

Abigail pictures Renee, hunched over her body panicking, and cringes. “ _Yeeeaahh_. I better get back. Do I get a book to take with or is that just a dad thing?”

Raphael smiles. “Just a dad thing.”

Reality shifts again, and The Almighty returns to her mysterious, all-encompassing coven, to put into action all her mysterious ways.

 

Renee is actually, in fact, hunched over Abigail’s body when she comes to. Upon hearing her best friend gasp like a fish, she jumps back, her tears lodging in her throat, unsure whether to fall.

Abigail sits up, exhausted, but otherwise unharmed. Something feels different about herself. It’s not as if something has been taken, which it has. More like something better has taken its place.

“See. Not dead.”

Renee scowls, and smacks her arm. _Hard_.

“ _OW!_ What the _hell?!_ ”

“You’re heart stopped!”

“Okay, but I didn’t die!”

“People die when their hearts stop!”

“Not all the time!”

Renee tenses as if to smack her again, this time not on her arm. Then she relaxes, her anger not deeming Abigail a worthy-enough target. “Are your powers gone then?”

Abigail flexes her fingers, feeling the familiar pop of celestial energy ready to work some miracles. “Just the ones that bring back the dead. I’m still me. Still an angel. Still a demon.”

“Still you.” Renee smiles.

And so does she. “Still me.”

Renee leans forward a bit. “Um...so you asked if we survived this if you could kiss me?”

The snow beneath Abigail begins to melt. It is actually melting, as Death has had his way with the troublemakers causing the storm. Still, Abigail feels warm enough to thaw what’s left of the polar ice caps. “I-I did, yeah.”

“ _So_...are you gonna do it or what?”

She is. In fact, Abigail kisses her right then. It’s a terrible kiss. Terribly perfect, in every way.

 

They’ve gone back to kicking the windshield when the halo gives out.

Crowley’s heel leaves a crack in the glass, that quickly begins to fractal out and form an abstract kind of spider web. He doesn’t bother miracling away the damage, as he’s already out of the car and screaming his head off.

“ABIGAIL! ABIGAIL! FOR SOMEONE’S SAKE ANSWER ME!”

Aziraphale is right on his heels, yelling overtop of him. There’s only one explanation as to how they were able to break out of the Bentley, and it’s not one they want to acknowledge. It’s not one they ever really could, given what it means.

“ _ABIGAIL!_ ”

The storm peters out the farther they run, and by the time they reach the heart of the woods it’s ceased completely. Nothing blurs the view ahead of their daughter smooching her best friend.

Crowley trips over himself as he comes to a stop. Aziraphale runs into him, and they nearly tumble together.

They can only see Renee’s face, and she’s smiling like there’s no tomorrow. But there will be a tomorrow, because Abigail has ensured it for the next however many years there are to come. Before the real end, that is. She looks up, realizes Abigail’s parents are watching them, and stands up quickly.

Abigail looks behind her shoulder, smiling for the first time in a long time like a kid would. Without a care in the world. “Dad! Dad!”

She’s fine. She’s absolutely fine. There’s not a scratch on her, and Crowley is crying again. “Y-You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady-!”

“No she doesn’t!” Aziraphale interrupts. “Come here!”

Abigail barely has time to rise to her feet before they’re barreling into her. Crowley presses so many kisses against her head he loses track of how many. Aziraphale is whispering nonsense under his breath, his worries rushing out all at once in an effort to relieve himself of his residual panic.

“You’re-Y-You’re-” Crowley stutters.

“I know. I know.” Abigail stares up at him, eyeing him over as if to make sure it’s really him she’s seeing. Though her gaze is welcoming. “I gave it up. I didn’t need Raphael’s powers. It was time to let them go.”

Crowley laughs in pure disbelief. “Okay then. Okay, just...never do that again. Don’t you _dare_.”

“Am I grounded?”

“Absolutely,” he says right as Aziraphale says, “Absolutely not.”

They all share a laugh, too emotional to care what privileges are revoked in the future. As long as there is a future. An ineffable future. And there will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we still have to go. Who's ready for a wedding!!!


	26. A Two Player Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings and endings and the changing of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I wasn't actually expecting to end this fic today. Yet here we are, and I'm rather emotional about it
> 
> Read the end notes for some sappy thank yous and whatnot

There are few sounds more precious than that of a baby’s laugh, and Abigail is having the time of her life doing magic tricks for Alec.

Her little cousin gurgles excitedly as she puts a hand behind his head. His cheeks are already puffed out into a wide grin, his dimples exposed and absolutely darling.

Abigail flicks a playing card into her hand and holds it out in front of him. “Is _this_ your card, young man?”

Alec bursts out giggling, his tiny body swaying to the beat of his own laughter. His grubby little hands reach out and take the card, then immediately shove it into his mouth.

“Ah ah ah. You can’t eat my act!” Abigail miracles the card back into the playing deck in her pocket. In an act of vengeance, she lunges over and begins tickling him. Alec goes ballistic, screeching noises of pure baby happiness. “You little gremlin! Look at you! You’ve drooled all over your suit!”

Alec has, in fact, done exactly that. The pristine teal polyester of his tiny suit jacket has been completely soaked through around his neck. Babies are as mysterious and wonderful as they are disgusting and absolute bastards.

Abigail barely has to blink to miracle the stain away. Now clean, she lifts Alec up and puts him into her lap. Not to hug him. Oh no. Now he’s in an even better position to tickle. The trap has been sprung.

Someone kicks a football that had been abandoned by the living room entrance towards them. Abigail shows Alec mercy as Crowley comes sauntering into the room. Snake-skin shoes, skin-tight suit pants, and a black lace top make him the most stylish groom Abigail has ever seen. Only her father could pull of clashing fashion choices so well, at his own wedding no less.

“How’s baby duty going?”

Abigail lifts Alec up from under his armpits, _Circle of Life_ style. “He is a menace and I love him.”

Crowley chuckles, easing himself down onto the carpet with them. “Hard to believe you were that small once?”

“No, I was always this big,” Abigail protests.

“I think you mean always that slobbery.”

Abigail sticks her tongue out at him, setting Alec loose to crawl around as he pleases. “So...it’s happening.”

Crowley smiles. “It’s happening.”

Abigail smiles too, beaming just as brightly as Alec was. “How are you feeling?”

“What do you mean how am I feeling? How should I be feeling?”

“I mean, you’re not getting cold feet or anything.”

“Abby-”

“I have to be sure! You’re my dads and I love you. And this is, like, a big deal…”

Crowley wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a warm, lacy hug. “Well, not that this isn’t a big deal...but we’ve kinda already been married it feels like,” he admits. “We were referring to each other as husbands for a time, or at least I was. Your father tends to take things slower than me.”

“You’re still excited though, right?”

“Pssh! Not every day I get an excuse to look this good!” Crowley exclaims. “And, y’know...it is important. The significance of it all...and sharing that with your father…”

He turns his head away as a blush creeps into his cheeks. Abigail elbows him with an affectionate, “Aww! Sap.”

“Shut it.”

“You are.”

“M’not.”

“You _love_ him. You wanna _kiss_ him-”

Crowley shoves away. “Enough from you! I’m leaving!” he stands up with a bashful huff. “When’s Renee coming anyway? Then I can embarrass you.”

Now it’s Abigail’s turn to blush. “Dad, please. I’m begging you.”

“I can’t wait to see the captain of the football team again. Bet you can’t either. You gonna ask her to dance with you?”

Abigail slings a playing card at him. “I’m affiliating your ceremony so watch what you say!”

Crowley snickers. “You’re not even properly ordained!” And he saunters off elsewhere, with a skip in his step.

 

They can’t get married in a church, obviously. Given Crowley is a demon and Abigail is part one, the ceremony has to be held elsewhere. And where better (and cheaper) than right in one’s own backyard?

It’s not as grand or pompous as your traditional wedding. They’ve placed a quaint wooden altar at the far end of the backyard, with two rows of house plants to serve as a pathway. A dozen or so foldout chairs have been set out for the attendees, though when most of your friends over six thousand years are dead, your guest lists tends to be fairly small.

Anathema, Newt, and Alec are attending, of course. Adam has flown in from Wales, as well has the rest of the Them. All of them have sprouted like beanstalks, and look far older than Aziraphale expected them too. Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy look around the same as they did “thwarting” Armageddon, though the former has a much softer demeanor than he did before.

Renee has also been invited, and she’s the first true guest to arrive. She has on a lovely dress, printed with the most dazzling of flowers, that Abigail can’t seem to take her eyes off of. In all fairness, Renee has a hard time not marveling over Abigail’s blouse-and-pants attire.

“You doing alright dad?” Abigail asks him. She acts as if she’s been moved from baby-watching duty to Aziraphale-watching duty, and honestly Aziraphale could do with a little watching.

“I’m a bit...frazzled. That’s the right word for it,” he decides.

“Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“No! Heaven’s no. Just…” He pats his breast pocket, the bulge of the folded paper underneath digging into his palm. “Fretting. Needlessly.”

“Everyone panics on their wedding day,” Renee assures him. “People do in the movies all the time, but it all works out in the end.”

Aziraphale nods, though not at them. He’s stuck fixating on the alter and the rose vines woven around the structure. “I just hope...Well, I want...Crowley deserves so much, and…”

Abigail tugs on his sleeve, gaining his attention. “Dad, he’s _so_ ready to marry you. You’re more than enough for him. I mean, God basically made me to keep you two together, so I’m not saying it’s meant to be _but._ ”

It takes Aziraphale a second, but he laughs. Sometimes, it only takes the right string of words to kill one’s nerves. He is at ease, now channeling his energy into excitement. “You’re right. How wise you are for your age.”

Abigail shrugs. She always shrugs. Everyone has their way to reflecting the hidden meaning of words, and the history embedded in them. How could she not be wise after all she’s seen? “I just happen to be right. All the time. I’m kinda great.”

Renee snorts.

 

Fifteen minutes before the ceremony, Abigail takes a walk.

It’s not a long walk. She knows exactly where she’s going and what she needs to do. It’s a walk she’s made many times before. So many she’s lost count, even in the span of just a few months.

She goes alone, because company will be waiting for her once she gets there. At least she hopes so. She likes to believe Hastur can hear the leaves crunch beneath her feet, the scrap of her flats against the lonely stones on her path, her words that echo past the trees.

Time has been kind to Crowley’s tombstone, as it has not been for him. Abigail runs her fingers alone its smooth surface, fingers falling into the carved letters that spell out his name. A long time ago the marker was reserved just for him, but now it stands for so much more. It carries the weight of a million other sacrifices, and the hope that keeps them going.

There’s only seven minutes until the wedding. Abigail would normally kneel, but she doesn’t want to stain her pants. She knows Hastur wouldn’t care if she stands, so she stands proudly.

“Hey. Dads are getting married today.”

The gentle spring wind calls back in Hastur’s place. Abigail smiles, imagine what he might say. Either an uninterested gruff, or a lazy _Oh?_

“Yeah. Finally tying the knot after six thousand years. More than that actually. They’re hopeless, but I’m doing my best to help them along.”

Silence passes. She knows what she wants to say, but speaking to the dead is never easy. Memories of a childhood long gone resurface, and an abandoned game file comes particularly to mind.

“Renee and me and dating now. Renee and I? Well, not really dating, just...hanging out more. I think we’re dating. I don’t know. We don’t really need to, I don’t think. I guess that’s why my dads never got married until now. Just didn’t need to...Anyway, it’ll be starting soon. I’m doing all the priest stuff. I hope I don't mess up. That’d be embarrassing. I know no one would care, but still...I miss you. A lot...I hope you’re somewhere nice. You deserve it. Really.”

Four minutes left to walk back. Abigail takes a step or two away from the tombstone, then stops.

“I’m not gonna finish the game for you, so if you can wait for me...get another controller ready.”

For a brief moment, the wind blows a little harder. Then it softens, and Abigail walks the rest of the way home.

 

Crowley is so glad he was in charge of the wedding playlist, because that means he gets to walk down the aisle to _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_.

In an attempt to stick to human tradition and also say to hell with it, he has asked Anathema to talk him down the aisle. He’s got his arm linked with hers, a bouquet of terrified flowers he grew himself, and tears in his eyes he will _not_ spill. Anathema looks at him before they head down and asks, “Ready?”

Crowley smiles at her. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Freddie Mercury belts out his first quiet stanza, and off they go.

Everyone stands, bathing in the rose hue of the afternoon. The Them are to his left, Shadwell, Tracy, Newt, and Alec to his right. Each and every one of them has a smile on their face, except for Shadwell. Crowley’s not really sure why Aziraphale felt the need to invite him. Madame Tracy and him must have been a package deal.

Still, he is the happiest demon to ever walk the Earth. Straight across from him, beaming like the Dickens, is Abigail. Maybe he just hasn’t had that great a look at her recently, but she has grown so much more than he realized. Her head is only a foot and a half below the top of the altar, almost level with Aziraphale’s.

And her eyes...oh her eyes. They are dim, though they sparkle. Like stars.

The brightest star is Aziraphale, however. Crowley invented many stars. He gave them their whimsical shapes that humans later put stories too. But Aziraphale is the greatest among them, with a soul that burns with the most profound compassion and tenderness and love. He is an angel who loves to love, not just because he is told to. And for some reason, a reason Crowley knows but sometimes still refuses to see, Aziraphale has chosen to love him above all things.

His angel is staring at him, tears in his eyes he allows to fall, and it hits Crowley. That this is real. Their love is real. Their love has survived, has prospered, has endured all that has threatened it and _won_.

And now, with this wedding, they get to celebrate that.

Before he knows it, Anathema has pulled her arm free and he’s standing before the altar. Before Aziraphale.

It takes all his willpower not to kiss him then and there.

Abigail gets started. “Dearly beloved, humans, angels, demons, baby...We are gathered here to celebrate the holy and satanic matrimony of Aziraphale and Anthony Janthony Crowley.”

Crowley gasps. “Where did you learn that name?!”

The crowd laughs at him, Aziraphale and Abigail included. Their daughter just continues.

“If there is any reason these two should not be wed, please keep it to yourselves. They’ve been through enough already and have basically been dating for thousands of years so saying their not a “good match” isn't going to work here.”

More laughs are shared. Crowley sees a comedy career in their daughter’s future.

“Um...this is the part where I skip to the vows?” she whispers to them.

Aziraphale nods. “I’ll, um...go first?”

He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper. It must be a century or so old, given how yellow and brittle it is. Crowley almost thinks it’s going to disintegrate as he unfolds it.

His angel clears his throat. “Once, during the twentieth century, I attempted to keep a diary. I didn’t do that well, admittedly, but there is one entry in particular I wanted to read to you dear. There’s not a specific date listed, as I couldn’t bother to remember what it was when I got around to writing that night.”

He stares at Crowley for a moment, the most vulnerable the demon has ever seen him, before continuing.

“ _1941_ . _He saved my books. Oh Lord I love him. I absolutely love him_.”

Crowley’s breath catches. The Blitz. The church. The books. He has to be thinking of the same night. There is no other night. No other night spent after years of silence, of misplacing their anger and refusing to talk. No other night where Aziraphale had climbed into the Bentley with his unharmed bag cradled close to his chest and said in the softest voice, “Thank you.”

Aziraphale smiles sheepishly. “In hindsight, it wasn’t the moment I fell in love with you. It was the moment I _realized_ I did, and had for as long as I can possibly remember. I was...I was too afraid to do anything about it, however. You know me, going too slow.”

“No,” Crowley assures him. “Never too slow. Just in your own time.”

His angel takes a deep breath, bursting with love. “Maybe so...I’m glad I was finally able to catch up with you. It only took me since the beginning of time, as it were. I, er...haven’t prepared much besides this. All I could possibly say to you would take thousands of years more. I’ll do my best to summarize.”

He holds out his hands, and Crowley awkwardly tucks his boquet under his armpit to take them. Aziraphale squeezes them tightly.

“I was not loved in Heaven. There was no love in Heaven. But on Earth, there was you. And you loved me. An angel, an enemy, a friend. Whatever those angels had tried to turn me into all those years, you stopped them. You saved me from becoming soulless, cold-hearted, lost...When I say I love you Crowley, I also mean thank you, and I love you _so much_.”

Crowley can hardly make out Aziraphale’s face through his tears, but he sees so much more than his angel’s sweet face. He sees his own savior, his own enemy-turned-friend who made life worth living, and life worth fighting for.

“Y-You’re not seriously making me go next after you said all that, are you?” he croaks.

Aziraphale’s laugh is pure, delicate sunlight. “You don’t have to say anything dear. I know how hard it is for you to say things like this.”

Crowley nods with a sniff. “Well...you can probably guess all I was gonna say anyway. Just so _you_ know, it was the oysters in Rome that did it for me. And the holy water was never meant for me. I never told you that, and I should have. I can’t imagine how badly I scared you.”

“To death. That’s what you did,” Aziraphale claims, brushing away a tear.

“Yeah, that’s on me. I’m sorry. Do you know how wild that is? For me to apologize? I apologized that one time, and you _forgave_ me. I’m the first demon to be forgiven in all of history, and _you_ did that.”

“How could I not?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh through a smile. “Angel...Oh, _Angel_ . I love you. Of course I love you. Look at this small crowd of humans.” He gestures to their friends, those young and old and happy. “Look at our daughter.” Abigail smiles. “Look at us...There’s not really a point to this. I just want to remember-I want _you_ to remember what we’ve got here. All this good I never thought I would have...I never thought I’d have you.”

Aziraphale takes shuddery breath, then leans in close to Abigail. “You can skip to the end, sweetie.”

Abigail flips quickly through her notes. “Aziraphale, do you take-?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Anthony-”

“Don’t you dare say it again,” Crowley warns her jokingly.

“Dad, do you take Aziraphale to be your wedded angel?”

And Crowley, with the conviction of a being who has loved and loved and loved another with every fiber of himself, says, “I do.”

Abigail fights back tears of joy to declare, “I now pronounce you two wed! You may kiss your ineffable other!”

Aziraphale’s lips find his, and Crowley rises to heavens only the two of them can possibly reach.

 

The reception is had outside, because who would ever waste such a lovely spring day?

Queen is played throughout the night, with the exception of _A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Squar_ e, because what other song could Crowley and Aziraphale possibly dance to? Contrary to popular belief, they do know other dances beside the gavotte and disco. Abigail watches happily from the sidelines as her parents sway together, content in a moment reserved solely for them.

When the song changes, however, all hell breaks loose. Aziraphale breaks into a solo gavotte, and Crowley’s funky steps mesh terribly with his. It’s horrid and humiliating, and they two of them are laughing their heads off the entire time.

Eventually, everyone makes their way onto the dance floor, which is just the back lawn really. Newt and Anathema take turns swinging Alec around, to the baby’s absolute delight. The Them seem to have started a mini dance competition that Renee is determined to win. Madame Tracy has convinced Shadwell to side-step with him a bit, and with each step the man takes he slowly admits to himself that he’s enjoying his witch’s temptations.

Abigail is the only one left without a partner, but her parents soon come over and hold out their hands.

“Care to join us?” Aziraphale asks.

She giggles. “What style are we dancing to?”

“One of our own invention, most likely,” Crowley grins.

In the end, they form a lopsided circle they barely move around in beside to shimmy their hips. Crowley kicks out his lanky legs and Aziraphale trips over himself and Abigail is smiling so hard her cheeks burn. Song after song passes, and eventually their movements become less erratic and more lethargic.

They end the final song with just a hug. A hug between fathers and daughter. A hug the unvierse tried so hard to prevent but failed oh so spectacularly.

Crowley leans down and presses a kiss to Abigail's forehead. Aziraphale runs a gentle hand up and down her back. Thirteen years ago, they cradled a baby between themselves and hoped they would still be doing so many years down the line. That baby’s grown up now, but you’re never too old to be held by your parents.

“I think someone wants to dance with you,” Crowley whispers.

Abigail catches Renee staring at them by the catering, eating crepes to pass the time. “I don’t want to step on her feet.”

“Hmm, trust in a little divine intervention.” Aziraphale winks.

They let her go, arms pulling away as they step back. Abigail smiles at them, a girl with Aziraphale’s eyes and Crowley’s hair and both their hearts, and blows them a kiss.

She walks up to Renee, who sets her plate down and rushes out an invitation to dance. Abigail leads her to the dance floor, as nervous as she is eager, and they begin to sway. They sway to their own rhythm, growing more comfortable by the second, and what is but a blink of an eye to the angel and the demon they’re dancing at their own wedding. Renee is a dress that is a wee bit fancier, and Abigail in a suit with two buttons undone.

Another blink and they’ve got their own cottage in Tadfield, with a dog, a pesky little house cat, and two children of their own. Crowley and Aziraphale have since moved out of Pulsifer cottage, though they live not far from the family of descendents. The bentley has the privilege of sitting outside the garage and showing off everyday to the neighbors, and Aziraphale’s recovered books of prophecy are given special placement on his new bookshelves.

As often as she can, Abigail drives down with her wife and her kids. She talks idly with her fathers, about things to little or no importance except that she can talk about them. She’s old enough to drink with them now, and if she gets them drunk enough she can get Crowley going off about dinosaur bones again.

And she keeps growing, her twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties all flying by. When she reaches her later seventies, Renee’s mortal body gives out before hers. Abigail’s beloved passes quietly in her sleep one night, and Crowley and Aziraphael spend the next hundred by her bedside.

She lives a long, long while. Not immortal but not that mortal either. She lives long enough for her own kids to go off and start their own families. She lives long enough to decide she needs to spend the rest of her time with company, and moves back in with her parents. Those years are some of her favorites. Three old folks living under the same roof, getting upset about unruly houseplants and dinosaur bones. She still doesn’t understand what’s so funny about it.

Then one night, as she’s getting ready for bed, Abigail has a visitor. She hasn’t seen him since she was a girl, and has preferred it to be that way. But when Death arrives he is ever so kind, and ever so gracious to see her again.

“I’ve always wondered what you said to those damn angels and demons,” she laughs, sitting patiently on the edge of her bed.

Death stands before her. He’d smile if he could. WHEN YOU MOVE ON, I WILL TELL YOU.

“Is that tonight?” she asks expectedly.

NO.

“Oh? So what’s this then? Just a friendly visit?”

A FAVOR. ONE I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO PAY BACK.

Abigail smiles. “You can just say you’re doing something nice. No need to be so dramatic about it.”

Death doesn’t speak for a long moment. YOU DIE TOMORROW NIGHT, IN YOUR SLEEP. SURELY YOU CAN FEEL IT.

Abigail nods. “Yes. I have for some time. I suppose some of Raphael’s powers still stuck a bit...Why tell me?”

Again, it takes Death time to respond. I NEVER HAD A DEATH OF MY OWN. I NEVER HAD ANYONE I EVER HAD TIME TO SAY GOODBYE TO. AS ONE PART OF THE BALANCING ACT TO ANOTHER...I THOUGHT I’D GIVE YOU TIME TO DO SO.

“Thank you.” Abigail yawns. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

GOODNIGHT ABIGAIL. Death takes his leave for that day.

She crawls under her covers, her joints aching and her limbs shaking. Some signs of death are easier seen than others. When she wakes, she hasn’t caught an ounce of rest.

Crowley and Aziraphale don’t know, and for the day Abigail intends to keep it that way. She requests a few things out of the ordinary, such as one last dine at the Ritz, which they have not done in a while. But her parents, ever so oblivious, drive her there all the same.

They share a duck, and toast champagne, and talk one last time about dinosaur bones. One hundred and twenty six years old, and Abigail finally gets why they find it so funny. Humans think dinosaurs have to exist because there are bones scattered about. Her parents think this is just a regular day because Abigail is acting like it.

Coming home, they drink more. Bottles upon bottles of wine and scotch. Abigail only allows herself to get a little bit tipsy, wanting to remember every last minute she’ll ever get to spend. They all sober up in the end, not wanting to go to bed drunk.

Before Abigail goes to bed, she finally tells them. It comes unprompted, as Aziraphale is going on about Oscar Wilde and Crowley about Shakespeare and their stories eventually link up and they realize they were both in New York when the Empire State building was finished. They seem so happy, reminiscing about the past, but Abigail knows if she doesn’t speak up now she never will.

“I’m dying tonight.”

They stop talking. Aziraphale slides his reading glasses off. Crowley drops his wine glass.

“You’re not,” Crowley states.

Abigail nods. “Well, I’m dying in the morning. Around two o’clock I think. I don’t know exactly what the time will be, but I can feel it.”

They both stand on trembling legs, and make their way to the couch with her. Crowley slinks his arms around her, holding her tight. Holding her as if he’s losing her, which he is.

“A-Are you sure?” Aziraphale whispers. Any louder and she may say it’s true.

Abigail leans against him, finding his hand. “It’s my time. I’ve lived a good life. A really good life. But I’m tired, dad. So, _so_ tired.”

They don’t speak. What can they say? What could any parent say? They simply hold her, tears coming in slow spurts, unable to grapple with reality.

“Can one of you carry me to bed?” she eventually asks.

Wordlessly, Aziraphale takes her. He was the first to hold her, fishing her out of that white basket she was delivered in a lifetime ago. It’s only fitting he be the last one to lay her down.

They tuck her in and lay beside her, each taking one of her hands. Night falls and the moon rises, and Abigail doesn’t want to close her eyes. Because she knows when she falls asleep she will not wake up again.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admits, voice groggy. “It’s my last night on earth and I can’t think of anything to talk about.”

Aziraphale squeezes her hand. “We can do all the talking. Can’t we dear?”

Crowley sucks in a harsh breath. “Yeah. Yeah, we can...W-What do you want to talk about, angel?”

“How about...the beginning.”

“Eden, you mean?”

“No. At the bookshop, when you found that basket on the doorstep.”

Crowley covers his face with a trembling hand. He can’t speak. Aziraphale does for him.

“You pretended it wasn’t there.” A laugh. “You were so scared that first night. I sent you to get supplies and you came back with the entire store! But you calmed down a bit after that, until we learned you could Abby. Oh, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves then.”

Abigail laughs weakly, picturing a baby with wings on its back and two very frantic parents chasing them about. “Do you ever wish…?” she hesitates.

Crowley shakes her, afraid she’s gone already. “Abigail?”

“Do you ever wish I was a normal baby?”

“Never,” they say at once.

“Do you ever wish you were?” Aziraphale asks.

Abigail shrugs. She won’t know it, but it’ll be the last time she does so. “I’m thankful to be exactly who I am. I’m thankful to be your daughter.”

A sob bursts its way out of Crowley. It’s too much all at once, and Abigail’s last regret will be not telling them of her departure sooner. Then again, she supposed Death went against the rules to give her an early notice anyway.

“It’s alright dad,” she whispers, facing Crowley, but addressing both of them. “I’m going to be alright. Everyone dies. Everything ends. Even the world will one day, for real...Promise me, when it does...you two let it go. It’ll be a peaceful end, and I think the humans will be ready for it. Well, maybe not. Regardless, take each other and go somewhere nice. Go to Alpha Centauri. Go to Gallifrey. Go wherever you desire. Just say together. For me...promise?”

Aziraphale brings her hand to his mouth. He kisses the back of her palm, lips lingering as he holds back a cry. “I promise.”

Abigail nudges Crowley, knowing he’ll need the push. He uncovers his face, and manages the strength to look at her. “I promisssse.”

With that, Abigail has fulfilled her purpose. She’s learned and taught her lesson, and she is finally ready to sleep.

“Thank you...so, so much. For everything...I love you two…”

Crowley tenses. “No no no. Abby. Abigail, stay with us now. Stay awa-”

Aziraphale reaches over and gently grabs his arm. “Dear...it’s time.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t...please don’t.”

Aziraphale blinks, tears cascading down his face. “Let her sleep.”

His angel was the one who first held her, but Crowley was the one who raised her. It was him and Abigail against the world for so long. His Abby keeping him going. There’s no conceivable way he can let her go. And yet he has to. He knows he has to.

Abigail’s breathing has shallowed, her eyes now shut. Crowley brushes the gray hair out of her face, leans down, and kisses her forehead one last time.

“Sleep well Abigail.”

Aziraphale smiles sorrowfully. “Be at peace now, Abby.”

 

An angel and a demon stand on a wall. They talk about apples and flaming swords and acts of morality.

Years and years and years later, an angel and a demon stand before an old bookshop. It has been abandoned ever since they left it, in a car with a baby seat in the back. Now, without a child to look after, the time has come for them to move back in.

Aziraphale pulls out his front door key. “Right.”

“Right,” Crowley mumbles.

“Suppose we can miracle our belongings in now.”

“Suppose so.”

Pedestrians and traffic mingle around them, going about their lives as the couple struggles to continue theirs. Leaving Tadfield had been as difficult a decision as it had been to stay there, but time heals most wounds and hopefully Soho can do the same.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and the moving boxes in the back of the bentley disappear. Inside, the lights turn on and the store is brought back to life. Though it won’t be used as a store for another decade or so. Neither of them can handle any more losses.

The angel holds out his hand. “Walk in together?”

Crowley takes it. “Together.”

Hand in hand, they cross the street. Aziraphale turns the key inside the lock. Crowley holds his breath.

The door is swung open, and the world outside disappears.

Inkly whiteness stretches out for miles upon miles in every which direction. The shop inside, a moment ago as sparse as a desert, is now filled to the brim with old books once lost.

Crowley turns to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale turns to Crowley. They know where they are, and they know it can’t mean anything good.

Except this time it does.

Someone is coming down the stairs. They rush to the bottom of it, right as Abigail reaches their floor.

She smiles. “Hello dads.”

Neither of them knows what it happening, and neither of them care. They throw their arms around their daughter, and hold her so tight.

Abigail starts laughing, completely carefree. “Oh, I’ve missed you two! I knew you’d both come back here eventually. How long has it been?”

Crowley holds her face in his hands, inspecting her all over. She’s doesn’t appear nearly as old as she was when she died, but she’s fair from a youthful age either. She’s somewhere in the middle, closer to their apparent ages.

“Not even a year. Not even...Abby.”

He pulls her in for another hug, Aziraphale following his lead.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how any of this is possible? How it works and whatnot?”

“Who _cares?_ ” Aziraphale gives her a big ol’ kiss on her cheek. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. You are here, aren’t you?”

“More like you’re here,” she corrects him. “God was gracious enough to at least let you see me from time to time.”

“Time to time?”

“Well, I’m still _dead_. But it seemed rather cruel to leave you two to face eternity without me. As long as you’re standing in this bookshop, you can see me. You can read all these books, you can water every houseplant.”

“But what about when the world ends?” Crowley asks.

Abigail thinks for a moment. “I’m sure She thought of something for that...You two look so tired.”

Crowley and Aziraphale nod solemnly.

“We miss you,” says the angel.

“More than you could know,” Crowley adds quietly.

Abigail smiles sympathetically. “I know you do. But you’ve got each other. You promised, remember?”

Crowley smiles. “Of course we do.”

“Have you waiting for us all this time?” Aziraphale asks.

“It hasn’t felt as long as it has for you,” Abigail assures them, meaning yes.

“All by yourself?” Crowley frowns.

There’s a shout from upstairs, followed by what sounds like an object being smashed onto the floor and stomped on repeatedly.

Abigail grins. “Nah. He just made it to the bonus world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you there was gonna be a happy ending! bc i'm weak
> 
> Thank you to each and every one of you for reading, leaving kudos, and super sweet comments. I took you all on a bit of a ride, making you all think this was just gonna be a fluffy kid fic and suddenly it was a murder mystery of sorts. It means a lot that you stuck around for so long, and put up with all the angst <3
> 
> Super super huge thank you to my friend Libby, who let me call her when I was struggling with plot points, and just struggling in general. Ilysm and I'm so thankful to know you <3 <3 <3
> 
> This fic has been an absolute blast to write. I'm not nearly ready to say goodbye yet to Abby though. I won't be writing any more Good Omens fics for the foreseeable future, but I've got an original novel in mind with Abby and Renee I hope to write someday. Cross your fingers I actually make it and don't abandon the idea
> 
> One last time, THANK YOU ALL SO SO MUCH!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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